


An Odium of War

by TiffanyLamps



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, Betrayal, Drama, Epic Battles, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, Jon/Dany is explored, Love Triangles, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Past Rape/Non-con, Political! Jon, Queen in the North, R Plus L Equals J, Season 8, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Violence, War, political scheming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-08-26 15:04:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 49,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16683871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiffanyLamps/pseuds/TiffanyLamps
Summary: "How can you not know what my true intentions are?" Jon's voice was barely audible, a soft whisper said between the two. Before Tyrion could see what Sansa's reply was, the pair went into her chamber, the warm golden light from her fireplace made the two appear almost holy as they stepped into the comfort of privacy.The deadliest war known to the Seven Kingdoms is imminent.  The Stark family prepare for a winter of death, sacrifice, and heartache, whilst under the watchful eye of untrustworthy allies. Within the Winterfell's fortitude, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark try to keep a kingdom at peace whilst they are falling apart. They rely on each other more than ever. Their complicated dynamic comes into question when their allies start to notice that there might be something more.-A Look into what might occur in Season 8.





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> -  
> She looked down at her hands, her eyes starting fill with tears. She thought of all of those years that her mother had hated Jon Snow, thinking that her husband had fathered a bastard child. All those years of hatred that affected how Sansa acted towards Jon and how Sansa thought of her father. She knew her father to be honourable but had felt a sense of distrust toward him because of his bastard son. But now, to find out that this was not the case, and in fact, her father was not a man of dishonour or dishonesty. It caused her heart to ache with sorrow for her father's memory and her mother's heart.  
> -
> 
> Chapter One of A Odium of War. Let us know what you think! Hope you enjoy.

Sansa awoke in the early hours of the morning, the crackling fire of the small fireplace in her chambers had died down to softly glowing embers. From underneath the comforts of her linen sheets and thick furs, the warmth of her bed was the only solace on this particular worrisome morning. On this winter's day, the sun had not yet risen into the sky, causing very little light to come through the solid wooden shutters of her windows. Taking a deep breath, she withdrew her blankets, sighing as she felt the cold of her room evading her. During the winter, Sansa had become accustomed to the below freezing cold mornings, where even the air glistened with ice. Sansa loved the cold, but as a summer child, she had not yet experienced the wrath of the true winter's air. The saving grace and necessity of this were the hot spring waters underneath Winterfell, which did do well to keep the most of the ice away.

Uneasy and her mind unsettled, she dressed quickly, making sure to keep on her winter sleeping dress. A white shift with long sleeves made from the thick wool, it scratched and irritated the sensitive parts of her skin but it provided her with a level of warmth that a summer sleeping dress could not. She was too tired and stressed to change out of her small-clothes into a fresh set and in her hast, she put on her winter boots over the top of her woollen hose. 

She left her processions scattered and went into the solar that was conjoined to her modest sleeping quarters. A larger space that was shattered with candles, as well as two wooden chairs accompanied a grand fireplace, an area directly in front of her that could be considered as a boudoir that was sectioned off with a folding screen and in the far corner, in its privacy, was a desk. She picked up her winter furs and cloak, draping it around her frame, arranging it just so to hide her sleeping garment, which was far too immodest to be seen outside of her private chamber.

She set upon her mission to go to her brother's chamber. She was urgent to speak with him in these early hours because this particular day presented the important and worrisome arrival of Jon Snow, her half-brother, and the foreign Queen, Daenerys Stormborn of the ancient Targaryen household. Sansa left her quarters, as she went into the cold passageways of Winterfell Castle, long dark corridors filled with torches as the only light to guide her way. As Sansa was born and raised within the hoary and venerable halls of Winterfell, she knew every single step off by heart and memory, so she did not worry about the lack of visibility. 

She knew every single detail of her home, she particularly knew the inner workings, as of late. This was due to the responsibility of safekeeping and maintaining the daily duties of her home had been entrusted onto her, as she was, as of late, the Lady Regent of Winterfell. This was a new status, which had been granted to her by Jon Snow, the King in the North, as he had undertaken a mission of reconnaissance and political alliance with southern rulers.

Her bastard-born half-brother's decision to go south was unwanted for many of the northern lords, as well as Sansa, herself. The northern people did not accept outsiders, especially southern rulers. This was because of the fact that the north had suffered so much despair due to horrific events, over the course of many decades. Sansa knew that the North was unsettled, they did not trust Jon's decision to leave the North and go down south. Sansa understood their strife, feeling that it was a foolish decision but she reluctantly understood that it was one that was necessary to help them against a greater evil.

The army of the dead was marching past The Wall (a seven hundred foot tall structure made of ice and magic) straight toward the living. An army larger than any northern or southern army combined. A band of undead decaying cadavers, giants, beasts of the north, White Walkers, and an undead dragon that cannot be negotiated with and cannot be stopped, without drastic matters. Sansa had been informed by the Men of the Night's Watch, the protectors of The Wall, of these accounts, documenting the horror that they were all faced. As the undead dragon burnt down this infamous ice structure that has been protecting the realms of men since -8000 BC. Sansa remembered fondly of Maester Luwin's teachings and Old Nan’s frightening stories, that she once believed to be fake. But it is horrifying to know now that it is all true.  


Jon Snow has been away from Winterfell for many, many months. With his occasional letters, he had informed Sansa of his recent adventures beyond The Wall with the aid of brave men, as well as Daenerys Targaryen. When Sansa read the details of this mission, she scrunched up the parchment into her hand with frustration due to the idiocy of the quest. The group had fought against a small portion of this undead army, barely escaping with their lives. Some of them did not. 

It was detailed to Sansa that Daenerys (most commonly known as the Mother of Dragons) had brought all three of her dragons with her to help save the band of men in their quest, but one of her dragons was struck with a deadly blow, causing it to die. Jon Snow and his guests were not aware of the information, that Sansa knew, of the dragon's resurrection and its ability to bring down The Wall with its fire. Sansa feared to tell them such news.

Sansa tried not to focus on the horror she felt in her body. She did not sleep well these days because of this news; her mind was never still, her body ached from the lack of sleep. But she could not ease herself due to the fear. Sansa longed for nothing more than her family. She longed to be safe and to see her family grow, having missed out of her sibling's predominant years of youth. She yearned for peace, she wished for prosperity, she pined for love. The reality of that dream coming true was brought into question when Bran, her younger and only surviving brother, had told her that the Army of the Dead had destroyed The Wall. This meant that they were much closer and a greater risk than Sansa had once realised.

She knew that Jon was right to worry and to seek help for the northern risk. But the unrest within the North could not and should not be ignored. Sansa listened to daily complaints from their bannermen and the small folk. She tired her best to reassure them, to bring them comfort but she knew that her words were becoming thin and stale to them. She needed Jon back at Winterfell to bring evidence of reassurance and to set a plan into motion. But this was faced with an even bigger problem; Jon Snow had relinquished his throne and title of King of the North to the foreign Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen.  


Sansa knew that this would cause uproar within the kingdom, she knew that the northern lords would turn their backs away from Jon. She worried that they would ride south and forget of the fret they are currently facing, or perhaps worse, they would try to turn their allegiances to Sansa and try to proclaim her as the truth Queen in the North… again.

Jon's absence had come with many struggles and Sansa knew that today would cause disruption amongst the people. Not only was Jon coming home and would face the tempers of their people but he also will bring with him the foreign queen. She is hated amongst the northerners for the crimes her father had committed against the Sansa's and Jon's family; the Starks of Winterfell. Daenerys brought with her a large portion of her two armies to help with the fight. The Unsullied, an army of thousands of former child slaves, who were now free men, ruthlessly dedicated to her. The other half of her army was a band of unruly Dothraki soldiers, the first to ever set foot into Westeros. Sansa had heard troubling accounts about these groups of men. She did not worry for the Unsullied, as she was aware of their restraint and their notoriety of only attacking when commanded to. But the Dothraki gave Sansa great concern. She had been informed that they were known for causing havoc and mayhem wherever they went; destroying villages, murdering men, abusing children, and raping women. Sansa hoped for her people's sake that would not happen here, for she did not wish that upon her people but also, she did not want to be put into the situation of executing any men of an allied army.

There was a lot at stake. A lot of the responsibility was resting on Sansa's shoulders, as many of her people now saw her as their true leader. Unbeknownst to Daenerys Targaryen, by forcing Jon to step down of his position, she had granted Sansa even more influence and prestige within her home. Her people now looked to her for guidance and leadership. But she knew this to be the court was filled with fickle men, who did not hold trust in Jon. But Sansa did trust Jon and knew he's trying his best for his people. But there was still a part of her that worried that his actions were not in the north's best interests. To give up the north's independence in the way that he did and without Sansa's consultation was something she tried to understand but she still took some offence. She knew she would have to discuss it with him in private to bring some sort of clarification on the matter.

With her mind swimming in troublesome thoughts, she arrived at Bran's chambers. There were two guards standing outside his door, kept there for his safety and to aid her disabled brother during the night. Bran had been paralysed from the waist down since a young boy, due to being pushed out of the top of the Broken Tower by Jaime Lannister. Bran had caught Jaime and his twin sister, Cersei, engaging in an act of a sexual nature. This event had caused strife between the two great households, which lead to a war. That war had resulted in the murder of Sansa's Lord father, Lady mother, and her eldest brother, Robb. As well as the murder of her youngest brother, Rickon. There was still a divide that had not yet been amended. Sansa felt a great discomfort to learn that Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister's younger brother, was to be coming to Winterfell, as his house was greatly distrusted amongst many.

The guards smiled and bowed at their former Queen Regent, now once again the Lady of Winterfell, allowing her to enter into her brother's chambers. The room was much smaller than her own but was still comfortable, with a fireplace and candles. Her younger brother laid on his back in a large bed, covered in layers of fur. She looked around his room to see many gadgets that were designed for his physical aid, but nothing that represented any sort of personal objects. Many things had changed since the Stark family had divided up all those years ago. The surviving Starks had endured so many losses of family members and friends. Sansa sometimes felt that she too had lost her brother Bran. This was due to his change in demeanour and identity. He now identified as The Three-Eyed Raven, a being of unquestionable magical ability with the skill of being able to control animals, humans, and had the great sight. He is able to see what has happened in the past, what's happening presently, and what will happen in the future. He was not the same person anymore, he was not her Bran. It deeply saddened her but she still found her heart warm with bittersweet happiness that he was still alive. At least he was here with her, even if he had greatly changed.

Sansa approached Bran's bed and sat down on the edge by his lifeless legs, making sure not to sit on them. Her presence woke her brother up, his eyes fluttered open and rested on her. That expressionless look came across his face and went to sit up but found himself unable to. Sansa immediately went to help him and managed to prop him up.

"Thank you, Sansa. You've come to speak with me." He stated in a monotone voice. Sansa looked down with slight pain, she missed how his voice was once filled with youthful joy and naivety. She missed how animated he used to be. They had all changed greatly because of the pain they individually endured.

"Yes, I wanted to talk to you about Jon's return today. I do not know if you're aware but he won't be returning alone." Sansa readjusted her winter furs, making sure to cover herself up.

"He'll be arriving with Daenerys Targaryen and her advisors. As well as her army and her two remaining dragons." He answered Sansa.

"Oh, of course, you know…" Sansa looked down at her hands, starting to feel nervous and unsure on what to say. She had not planned out exactly what she needed to talk about with Bran and now, felt somewhat uneasy with his questioning eyes on her.

"You're worried. You're scared of what the Northern Lords are going to do once Jon is here, you fear what they will think of Jon's alliance." Sansa merely nodded in response, knowing that she did not need to voice her concerns because her brother knew her too well.

"Yes, I am. Jon," she sighed, "Jon does not understand how important it is to keep the Northern Lords on our side, to keep their faith in our cause. He's too focused on dragon glass and dragons to think that once this is all over if we're still alive, we're going to need northern families to be on our side to help us rebuild whatever is left." Sansa found all her frustrations coming out. She knew that her brother would not judge her for her words, she was not too sure if her sister would do the same.

"You are right to be worried but we require all the help we can get…" Sansa sighed at his words, she wanted to hear something different from what she already knew. She looked down at the outline of her brother's lifeless legs that was covered by his bedding. She placed her hand onto his leg, squeezing it and started stroking it in a way to show affection to him and to display her saddens. It was also a way to try find comfort in their situation; some sort form of normal. He simply looked down at what she was doing, unable to feel it. His face changed slightly, a sense of softness came across his eyes.

"You need to be cautious, Sansa. You cannot let your feelings to be so easily noticeable. You cannot let your true thoughts be known just yet." Sansa's eyes shot up to meet her brothers. She felt panicked by what he meant and saw that, to her dismay, he knew exactly what she was thinking. What did he know of the matters of her feelings?

"When Jon returns, it is important that I speak with him. There's something that I must tell him." Bran awoke Sansa away from her thoughts.

"What do you mean?" She asked.

"Jon is not our father's son. He's not a bastard at all. He's the legitimate son of our aunt, Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen." Bran stated this with very little weight to his voice but something was still there that let Sansa know that this news was burdening him. She stared at her brother with disbelief, her mouth widening in shock.  


"He's not our half-brother," he continued. "Father lied all those years to try to keep Jon alive, so that Robert Baratheon did not kill him," A slight hint of excitement was present in Bran's voice, but Sansa did not hear it for she had shut down in shock. She did not need to ask how her brother knew this and if it were true. His visions of past events were extremely accurate, having been able to detail so much of her past, she knew that he would not lie to her.

She looked down at her hands, her eyes starting fill with tears. She thought of all of those years that her mother had hated Jon Snow, thinking that her husband had fathered a bastard child. All those years of hatred that affected how Sansa acted towards Jon and how Sansa thought of her father. She knew her father to be honourable but had felt a sense of distrust towards him because of his bastard son. But now, to find out that this was not the case, and in fact, her father was not a man of dishonour or dishonesty. It caused her heart to ache with sorrow for her father's memory and her mother's heart.

Her heart also ached for Jon. He had always been known as the Bastard of Winterfell, the embarrassment of the North. Sansa felt a sense of anger that he had spent his entire life feeling like an outsider, in so many ways. Now, he is to find out his true parentage, in a time like this; a time of war. Sansa worried that it could be devastating for Jon, for his sense of self, his ideals of his worth, and where he felt like he belonged. She also feared that it might make him more sympathetic toward and become closer to the Targaryen queen. Of whom, Sansa wondered that she did not truly appreciate the risk that the North, and all of Westeros, currently faced.

"He is our cousin! He's never been a bastard. He's the rightful heir to the Iron Throne." Bran continued, ignoring that Sansa was clearly upset and unsettled by this information. She blinked, her tears falling onto her hands. She cleared her throat, wiping her cheeks of any moisture, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ears.  


"Who else knows of this?" She asked, her voice very serious.

"I think it is only myself, Samwell Tarly, and now, you," Bran stated, his voice returning back its emotionless tone. Sansa nodded, her mind numb with worry, her eyes blank.

"No one else can know. When Jon arrives, we will arrange for a private meeting with him. It'll be just myself, you, Jon, Arya, Samwell Tarly, and perhaps, Ser Davos… Maybe Brienne. No one else can know of this. If that dragon queen were to find out that Jon has a better claim to her father's throne than she does… I don't know what she would do," Sansa's hands started to shake, she hoped that Bran did not notice.

"Yes, you're right." Bran nodded to Sansa, resting his hands by his side. Sansa went to leave, her whole body numb and her mind overloaded with emotion and worries. No resolution had been granted to her by this conversation, she had not been given the comfort she had sought after. She stood up and turned to the door until a thought came to mind.

"Bran, is there any way you can prove this? Not that I don't believe you. But I worry that Jon might not." Sansa looked at her brother, who simply gazed at her with intensity in his eyes.

"Samwell Tarly has found documents that prove of Rhaegar Targaryen's annulment from his Dornish wife. As well as his wedding to aunt Lyanna. The rest of it is harder to physically prove but I know it to be the truth." Sansa nodded, not needing to hear any more.

She left her brother's chambers, quick to return to her own. She walked in almost a run, sure to retain her posture and modesty. She ran up the steps to her chamber, quickly opening the door and slamming it behind her, only to find a servant was in her quarters. A girl not much younger than Sansa, she was pouring hot water into a large red oak washing tub. The young female servant looked shocked to see Sansa.

"Your Ladyship. I beg your pardon, I thought that you were still asleep." She bowed her head and put the large stone vase on the ground beside Sansa's fireplace.  


"There's no need to apologise. I can carry on from here, you can leave." The young girl bowed her head and left swiftly, shutting the door behind her. 

Sansa locked it and felt the tears starting to prick her eyes once again. She moved over to the washing tub to see that it was full with hot water, the steam kissing Sansa's cold cheeks like a lover. The tub was filled with petals of the common blue rose of the North, as well as lupine (the flower of House Stark), and a few lotuses flowers (the flower of House Tully, her mother's house). These were the last few bundles of the summer flowers, Sansa wondered if her bath water was the best way for them to be used.

Her living quarter was now filled with daylight, as well as the golden hues of the fireplace. Sansa removed her winter furs, the room much warmer than it has been previously. She then removed her winter bed dress, as well as her undergarments. She faced her vanity, the light illuminating her, reflecting off her naked skin. She looked like a ghost, the ghost of an angel that had fallen.

She gazed at her pale complexion, her long thick red hair in a singular braid. She unplaited her twisted locks, causing it to fall down onto her breasts in thick waves. Her nipples hardened from the cold air. She looked down her body, one of a woman, and she felt saddened to see how it had changed. Her skin was once so clear and free of imperfections. But now, she was riddled with scars differing in colour, some were white and thick. Whereas others were still purple, like blisters, still sore.  


Some of the older scars on her back and legs were the result of a former king, Joffrey Baratheon. The young king that Sansa once felt infatuated with, turned out not to be what she had thought of him. When she was just a girl, he was her betrothed, her future that never came true. At one time, he represented everything that she thought that she needed and wanted in her life; the excitement of the Capital of the Seven Kingdoms. 

The match offered her a comfortable life filled with riches and beauty, the promise of a family of her own, and most importantly, a kingdom to rule. But he revealed himself to be cruel, filled with malice, and sadistic rage that was stemmed by his insentient need for control. He was a murderer, who took her father's head. He was the monster that made her look at it. He beat her, humiliated her, traumatised her all without ever laying a hand on her. He always had others do his whims, never having the courage to touch her himself, even though, Sansa could see in his eyes that he wanted to. She still could hear the laughter that filled the court as Joffrey order Ser Boros to strip Sansa naked and beat her. She could still feel the pain when he hit her and tore her silk dress, exposing her breasts.

This act was just the beginning of many moments in Sansa's life where men had physically or mentally abused her. Very little compared to the brutality that her ex-husband, Ramsey Bolton, had inflicted upon her.

Her ex-husband (her second husband) was a man that feigned politeness and manners. He wanted, so separately, to be seen as a Lord of the North, instead of a bastard, born from nothing. He had an animalistic side to him that Sansa had not seen before. She was a child bride stolen away from one family that had murdered her Lord father and then wed to another family that had murdered her Lady mother and brother. They had also murdered her brother’s pregnant wife and her brother's dire wolf. These were crimes that Sansa felt and hoped had angered the gods if they were still watching down on her family.

Every day the pain she had endured was still with her, she could feel everything that was done to her. She could still feel the sting as her ex-husband struck her, causing her blister and bleed. She could feel the screeching pain that she felt when he flayed her skin. She could feel his hands on her still, clutching at her with such force that he left large bruises and finger marks. Her womanhood had also changed, she had endured a tremendous amount of pain and complications from being forcibly entered over the course of almost a year. 

He was a tormenter, an evil butcher. The scars he left upon her thighs, stomach, buttocks, arms, and womanhood had caused her to be too scared of anyone ever seeing her skin again. She bathed alone, she dressed alone, she slept alone. She made sure that no one, apart from Maester Wolkan, saw her scars. She only trusted him as he was able to attend to her medical needs and was loyal to House Stark. He had shown Sansa a great deal of respect and discretion.

After knowing and having to live with these two men, the only little relief that she could feel was that she got to see them die. Joffrey at the hands of another, poisoned on his wedding day. It was terrifying and thrilling to have seen him die. But all of it just reminded her of her older brother's murder, as he too, was murdered at a wedding. The satisfaction that she experienced from murdering Ramsey Bolton was a feeling she hadn't felt previously. It was a dark and dangerous sensation that swept over her. It warmed her pain and created a sense of closure. But it was fleeting. Her inner wolf fed off this feeling, thrived off it, needing it. But she did not know whether she could handle it.

But, with each passing day, she felt the pain starting to ease away. Re-joining with her family had helped with this, as their love enabled to her keep her mind off her aching body. She tried to look upon these scars with a sense of victory, a reminder that she had prevailed over the men who had tried to control, manipulate, humiliate, and harm her. She tried not to see herself as a victim, not anymore. She was a woman now and the Lady of Winterfell. She is a wolf of the North, she can be strong, she must be strong.

Despite her pain, she was still a beautiful young woman. Her body was still lean, her limbs long and held with dignity. Her manner regal and glorious. But she felt a sense that her purity and innocence was stolen from her. She ached that one day someone would want to see her naked form again. For just a moment, she allowed herself to indulge in this thought, romancing that she might one day have someone who loved her, for her and nothing more. Maybe there was a man out there that would never want to cause her any harm. But this moment was fleeting as she reminded herself that no one would ever want to marry her for love, all that anyone wanted was her title.  


With these sad thoughts, Sansa slipped into the hot bath water, her muscles singing in delight as they felt the warmth. The petals of the flowers stuck her skin, a pleasant, sweet scent drifted into the air. She leaned back and relaxed against the red oak of the tub, her hands slowly tracing over her body. Her thoughts went to Jon and her conversation with Bran.

Jon wasn't her bastard half-brother after all. But instead, the heir of the Iron Throne. Sansa couldn't believe it, she was shocked that the sulky boy that she knew growing up was the son of the last great Targaryen prince. Robert Baratheon started a war that was based on a lie. Why did so many people have to die just because Lyanna did not love him?

Besides the tub, the servant girl had left a package. Sansa knew that this contained a mixture that was moist and tacky in texture. Its purpose was for cleaning one's self, and in particular, cleaning one's hair. It was a ball of mixed herbs and flowers, the ingredients clumped and held together with bear fat. Sansa soaked her hair and began to work this concoction into the roots, making sure to massage it in. It was rather gritty and did leave the hair somewhat dry. Sansa remembers the products that she had used in King's Landing, there was always an array of choice. The people of King's Landing bought expensive and luxurious herbs and oils that are imported from Dorne and Essos. Thick with aromatic scents, silky in texture, which left the hair with an oily residue. Whereas, the North uses the resources that they find within their gardens or the woods, especially in the times of war.

As Sansa cleaned herself, making sure to rid of any dirt in preparation for the day. She froze, able to hear a scratching noise, suddenly feeling very anxious and on edge. She stared at the door that leads to the passageways, the sound began to get louder until the door to her sleeping quarters opened. Ghost, the albino dire wolf, came into the room with a smile on his face. Unlike any other common wolf, Ghost was a creature of the old world, a place of monsters and magic. He was much larger in size, the same size as a small horse and far more powerful in strength. The other and main difference is that a common wolf is loyal to their own, whereas the dire wolf is bound to their master and are fiercely protective of the pack. This close relationship with wolves was common and noted throughout House Stark's history. The ancient house was known for their relationships with the dire wolf, the man and beasts were able to live together in harmony, for the man was just as loyal, stubborn, and deadly as the wolf.

"Oh, Ghost! You scared me. I didn't know you were in there," Sansa smiled at the wolf. He came over to her, staring at her with his red eyes, a soft look upon his large face. Jon had left his loyal wolf with Sansa, asking Ghost to watch over her in his absence, to protect her if it came to it. Ghost was good to Jon's word, spending some nights in Sansa's chambers. He had become very attached to her, following her around the grounds of the castle. Direwolves were not pets, as her father had told her, nor could they be fully tamed. But once you have earned their trust, they will follow you through almost anything.

Ghost excitably sniffed the mixture in Sansa's hair before giving her a lick on the cheek. This warmed her heart, causing a genuine smile to reach her lips. She scratched him behind his pointed ears, his head twisting to meet her hand. He gave a large sigh before laying down on the stone ground, his pure white fur still visible over the top of the washing tub's edge.

"Don't worry, boy. Jon will be back soon, I know you miss him. I do too. I miss him so much that it hurts me sometimes," Sansa splashed the hot water on her face, trying to stop herself from getting too emotional. "He's going to need your help. He's going to need us both and we cannot let him down. We cannot desert him." Sansa's chest ached in pain, as she finally allowed herself to be overcome with emotion. She quietly sobbed into her palms, her body shaking as she let all of her pent-up worries come out.

She had not let anyone, or even herself at times, know of her feelings and why she missed Jon so much. She found it impossible to allow herself to succumb to these emotions, as love was not what she thought it to be. It was not romantic tales of bravery, of handsome knights in armour that saved the beautiful princess. Love was not the way it was described in the songs. Any feeling of romance was something she did not allow herself to have. She had found companionship with Jon, she trusted him with her safety and well-being. But she wasn't sure if she trusted him with her happiness for did not trust anyone with that. She knew that these feelings toward him would change, their dynamic was going to change after the next coming months. Jon would surely view the Starks differently after he is to find out his true parentage. This war will change everyone and Sansa did not know whether it was for the best.

She found herself very much uncertain on so many different factors. She knew she needed to be a reliable and fierce leader at this time, she must hold the North's interests above all else. After all, she was the oldest true-born Stark child and the future of the North. She just wanted for one night to allow her own wants and desires to be addressed, she wanted to be a girl once again, not the Lady of Winterfell. She wondered what Lord Petyr Baelish would advise her to do in this situation if he were still alive… If she hadn't executed him.

But there was no time for her private emotions, there was no time for the feelings of her heart. But only what she was able to do for her people and her family. That included Jon, the man that she knew to be her half-brother for all these years, was now a cousin to her. Many years ago, when they reunited, he was a stranger to her. She did not know what he was to her now, what he could be to her. But she knew that he needed her and he's going to need her in the future. Sansa knew that this information will not sit well with the Northern families. They would not want a half-wolf, half-dragon sitting at Winterfell, unsupervised. Jon would need the reassurance of the Stark children to back up his right to serve the North.

Sansa wiped herself clean, rising her hair. Before she left the tub, she quickly cleaned her teeth. She got out of the washing tub and covered herself in a towel that been laid down by the fire, covering her naked form. She was quick to dry herself in order not to get too cold and went to the cabinet, where she kept her clothing. She put on a clean pair on small clothes, as well as her thick winter hose that all northern ladies wore to keep their legs from getting frostbite. On top of this, she put on her dark shift dress, it was full-length with full sleeves and high necked. In the daylight, it was practically see-through, casting her silhouette into full display.

On a chair by her desk was a bundle of clothing, mainly leather that she was fashioning into as an extra layer for the Stark army's chest plates. Even though the armoury was very cable of doing this themselves, Sansa felt the need to help as she knew they were struggling with the heavy workload. She knew of no better person to take on the task, as she was very talented with her sewing needle.

Besides these items, there was another garment that Sansa had been working on, for herself; a thick and regal winter dress. Sansa had been fashioning this attire out of the materials of her other garments, as supplies were very low for the luxury of a new dress. She knew to ration herself to what she already owned, as not to take away from others within the Kingdom. She had been working on this dress for months, many nights were spent in the candlelight.

It was a dark grey throughout with little details to highlight certain areas that gave it an extra dynamic. The grey base colour was to represent the colour of her house with a high neck and long, thin sleeves. Sansa had spent many hours concentrating on the stitching. The skirt was highlighted with little stitches lighter grey (that went from the bottom of the bodice to the hemline) that resembled the cracking of ice, as the water underneath starts to become warmer. The dress was easily fastened by oneself, as Sansa was able to step into it and secure the dress at the front with lacing that could be tied and hidden from view. The front was brought together and secured with three pins that were leaping silver trout, the sigil of her mother's house; House Tully.

It was the torso of the dress was the most detailed, as Sansa had stitched in highly detailed two snarling wolves facing each other. A common take on her Lord Father's house's sigil- the dire wolf. The beads were black, grey, silver, and teal in colour as a way to further bring her parent's houses together. In between these wolves, there were vertical lines of white fur embroidered into the material of the garment. This was actually a smart form of a solution for Sansa because Ghost been shedding his summer coat for quite a while, leaving clumps of white furs all over her chamber. So, Sansa decided to collect it and use it within her clothing, as a way to have the wolf be a part of her, wherever she went.

The garment also had very large white-fur shoulder pads with more gems, these were in place as a way to help Sansa's cloak sit better on her body. It also helped her stand taller, it gave her a sense of importance. She adjusted the dress to make sure it was in place before applying her brown belt, as a way to define her silhouette. Attached to her belt was the bottom half of her chain necklace, she had decided to keep the half that had her symbolic needle, as a way to define her craft and skill.  


Sansa then started on her hair, brushing it out and sectioning it into three. Sansa was very fortunate to have very long and thick hair, which she often struggled with when wet. She started by creating a large plait that went around her head, resembling a crown, for which, she secured with pins. She was left with quite a lot of hair left in the back of her head. So she took small sections of hair, creating very small braids, only two inches long each before she joined the hair into a thick plait. Which was only several inches long, leaving a large majority of the hair loose. She twisted the plait into a bun, pinning it in place. The rest of her hair at the back dangling down her back, starting to wave as it dried.

She pulled out a few strands of hair around her face, twisting them with her finger in order for them to curl, as the hair was still drying. Sansa's arms ached from having to achieve this complex hairstyle herself but found that it was very complimentary of her jawline and was practical for the busy day ahead. She had only had this type of hairstyle once before and that was for her last wedding. The night brought her terrible memories but she tried not to focus upon the past. She looked into the draw that she kept her hair supplies and saw that she had winter berries, the blue winter rose, and thistles. She decided against wearing them now but instead, to apply them to her hair for the dinner that night in the Great Hall. She knew that these accessories would compliment her other new dress far more, as it was an evening dress, better suited for grand dinners. 

Ghost had started to become restless, so Sansa was quick to tie her shoelaces for her winter leather boots, and to apply her cloak with her winter furs. She felt engulfed in warmth and security once she had completed her outfit. She looked at herself in the mirror of her vanity once last time and did not see the child she once was but instead, a new woman. She saw a leader. She saw a queen.

Sansa felt the familiar feeling of numbness as she and Ghost left the Stark quarters and went into one of the many bustling and busy courtyards of the castle complex, toward the armoury. The castle complex had never been this busy for all of Sansa's lifetime. The castle and the surrounding areas were filled with workmen, small folk, and the men of House Stark's bannermen. Everyone had come to the kingdom's capital with their resources and personal belongings to start preparing for the great war. Winter Town was now highly populated as were the surrounding snowy fields around Winterfell. The fields were filled with huts, where many families now resided. This landscape was only to become more condescend once Winterfell's guests arrived. The land was never quite peaceful anymore, the buzzing sound of conversations were always heard throughout the day and night. She tried not to think of the future, as they were many things she needed to do beforehand.

Ghost ran off into the God's Woods after Sansa had reminded him to come back soon because Jon was arriving that day. Sansa smiled as he ran off, whereas many of the workers still looked at him uneasily. Many people stopped what they were doing to greet Sansa, bowing her heads and smiling at her fondly. She continued on with her tasks for that day. She carried the bundle of leather to the armoury to give back so that the leather could be attached to the chest plates.

Sansa was making her way to the castle's kitchens when she saw that her sworn shield and close friend, Lady Brienne was waiting for her by the door. Brienne of Tarth was an unusually large woman, standing taller than any of Sansa's brothers or father. She was almost the same height as Sandor Clegane, from what Sansa could remember. Although Brienne was a Lady, she did not exactly look like one, as she tended to fashion herself in men's wear, instead of women's. She was a highly skilled swordsman and more loyal than any Knight. She was sworn to protect the Starks and Sansa felt that there was no one better for the task.

"Good morning, Lady Sansa," Brienne smiled at Sansa, as she saw the young woman approaching her.

"Good morning, Brienne. I hope you are well." Sansa replied in a polite tone, happy to see the woman that morning.

"I am, thank you, my lady. I notice that you have made a new dress, it is very proper. How are you this morning? You did not seem very well last night…" Brienne's soft words trailed off, as she and Sansa walked together through Winterfell's kitchens to find the principal cook.

The kitchens were fast with many dimly-lit interconnecting rooms filled with workers. Sansa and Brienne ducked their way through sweeping archways, in-between tables, past men and women cutting up animals and vegetables. The noise level was loud and the smells intense. Due to the vast size of Winterfell, many of these rooms had grand fireplaces, which had large brass pots hanging; steam clouding the whole building. The two women finally entered the largest room; with a tall ceiling, small windows, and candlelight. Sansa approached the principal cook, who slammed her large butcher's knife down onto the wooden table, gaining everyone's attention. The workers within that room stopped what they were doing and bowed to their Lady.

"Lady Stark, what is it that I can do for you?" The elderly woman turned to Sansa, her face red and sweating. She wiped the blood off her hands onto her apron.

"I wanted to get an update for the feast tonight, as we had discussed a few moons ago," Sansa answered, smiling at her.

"We shall have enough food for the guests within The Great Hall, my Lady. There's enough food for five hundred guests and multiple courses. There is also enough wine, mead, and ale for anyone who wishes to drink it. We have been preparing day and night." The cook had a voice like gravel, deep and sore from years of shouting. As they conversed, workers walked past them holding pheasants, deer, wild bores, and ducks ready to be deskinned and gutted.

"That is brilliant news, I thank you all,” Sansa stated loudly, gesturing to the workers around her, gaining a few bashful smiles from of the young members of the team.  


“Winterfell has not been host to a feast such as this, in many years. I was wondering if you are able to spare some bread and cuts of meat for our guest's army? We, as the hosts, need to show that we are welcoming to the foreign army. But first, be sure to hand out food to the families in Winter Town and the huts. They must eat as well as us." Sansa felt nervous asking this as she knew that Winterfell had been rationing the food supplies for their own people, it felt somewhat wrong to be giving food away, but she knew it was what a responsible Lady would do for any of their allies.

"Of course, my lady. But how long are we expected to feed the Essos army? We cannot afford to-"

"I understand and agree. I will speak with Lord Snow and Queen Daenerys about organising for our guests to make their own food arrangements past tonight. As the food is needed for the North," the cook smiled grimly and nodded at this. But Sansa did not feel particularly well about the situations they were currently in. 

"I will be with my brother and sister in the hall for breakfast if you are ready to send up the food. Do not worry, I will have what I did yesterday."

This statement was met with an uneasy look from both the cook and Lady Brienne. They looked upon Sansa as if she were to break. She knew of their worries, as it had been mentioned to her by many of her closest advisors and members of the Stark household. She was losing weight rather fast, her previous dresses did not fit her around the waistline anymore. But despite what they might think Sansa just did not have the same appetite as she once did, the worry and lack of sleep had caused her to not to think of food. Sansa knew that the Lady of Winterfell was expected to eat a healthy amount of food throughout the day. Feasting on smoked meats and cheese, fruits, stodgy bread, pies with thick gravy, amongst a few things. But Sansa had learned from Jon that sometimes, in these types of situations, large quantities of food was not necessary in times of crisis. So instead, she ate a modest portion of porridge with honey and a cup of warm crushed apple juice. Besides, she could not and would never allow herself to be the ruler that sat by as she feasted, while her people go hungry. She had the first-hand experience of what that could do, as she had felt the people of King’s Landing hatred and desperation during the riot of King’s Landing. Starving citizens can do unspeakable things to those that are in the position to protect them. 

"Of course, Lady Stark. I will have breakfast sent over straight away," Sansa went to leave, nodding her head at the cook politely.

"Some of the girls have made over three dozen lemon cakes for you this evening. They know that it is your favourite." Sansa blushed, stopping to look back at the cook, a big smile came across her face. She thanked the workers, they all blowing to her before she left, Brienne following her.

"They all really admire you, Sansa." Lady Brienne noted in a low voice, making sure to keep their conversation private as they walked through the courtyard.

"Hmm, I wonder how long that'll last," Sansa replied, speaking honestly.

"They really do. They see that you are a just and fair leader. You put the needs of your people before your own, they respect you for that." Sansa continued walking, looking around her, overseeing the activities of the castle complex. She felt uncomfortable by what Brienne was saying, she did not want anyone hearing such words, in case her leadership starts to be publicly compared or preferred over Jon's. Brienne noticed that Sansa had stopped paying attention to their conversation, she slowed down her pace, placing a gentle hand onto Sansa's shoulder. Sansa looked back at her, examining the concerned look on her sworn sword's face.

"My Lady…" she paused, "Sansa, please listen to me. I do not say this to berate you. I just," Lady Brienne sighed, finding it hard to say the right words, "You need to start taking more care of yourself. You are starting to look somewhat unwell and it would go against my duty if I did not express my concerns for your wellbeing."

"Thank you, Brienne. You are truly a loyal friend." Sansa smiled at the tall women before turning to walk away from their conversation. But her answer did not seem to satisfy Lady Brienne, who continued to speak to Sansa in a hushed voice.

"Please, Sansa. You need to stop putting Jon first and start looking after yourself. I know that you spend most of your night awake, this is not good for you-"  


"Jon needs me now more than ever!" Sansa exclaimed, starting to become slightly frustrated. She stopped to look around them, finding themselves currently alone before she continued to speak. "Bran had found out something about Jon that puts us all at risk. Jon, most of all. He doesn't realise it yet, but he has put himself into a dangerous situation by bringing that dragon queen here." Brienne stared at Sansa, her eyebrows knitted together, completely confused. But she did not speak to ask for further information.

"Besides, my people need me. We are preparing for war, not for the comforts of summer. Most of the people here are going to die, Brienne. I am in charge of trying to ensure that we keep as many northerners alive as possible. If that means that I work through the night to make sure that my men are kept warm whilst they fighting, then so be it. If that means that I eat basic foods so that my people have more to eat for themselves, then so be it! I will not live a life of luxury whilst my people face death!" Sansa started to feel all of the emotional strain she felt that morning starting to come back. She knew that it was wrong to take out her frustrations out on her friend, but as the Lady of Winterfell, she could not allow her actions to be confused.

"I understand, my lady. But you are not the only Stark at Winterfell anymore, it not entirely your responsibility to oversee every little detail. You'll make yourself ill." Brienne's voice became soft as she tried to reason with her liege lady.

"Bran is a cripple and has no interests in these things. Whereas Arya, well, she doesn't quite understand what it takes to oversee the castle." Sansa could see that Lady Brienne was not going to agree. She went to interrupt Sansa with another point but Sansa was quick to cut her off.

"Lady Brienne, please, we will not discuss this any further. I appreciate your concern, it shows you to be a loyal and just friend to me. But there are far more important things right now. I need to be there for my family and my people, I cannot distract myself with the rest." Sansa turned to leave as Lady Brienne nodded her head, agreeing to end the conversation where they had left it.

Sansa turned back to her sworn sword with a fierce look in her eyes, a true lady of the North. With the might and strength of her Lord father, she spoke with the integrity of a true Stark.

"Winter is here."


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why? Why was a very good place to start. Jon was swimming in a world of questions, an unending stream of confusion and uneasiness. He couldn't bring himself to elevate away from this treacherous place. He wanted to be free of his confines and go into the Godswood, where he might find an answer underneath the Heart Tree. A place where he could collect his thoughts and feel as if he belonged where he stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a very long chapter but a lot is covered. Enjoy!

The crisp air of the North hit the back of Jon Snow's throat. The convoy from Dragonstone had been travelling for almost a month, through the rocky waves of the Narrow Sea and the cold terrain of the Northern kingdom of Westeros. Jon nervously sat in a large dark-wood carriage, with plush blood red velvet seats and doors that were engraved with dragons. The shutters to the outside world were open, allowing the sunlight to glare into the dark carriage; thin black netted curtains were in place for privacy. The abhorrent carriage was large enough to be host to four adults but on this occasion, it was only available to Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen. They had been sitting in a long and rather heavy silence for quite some time, neither knowing what topic to discuss next.

Daenerys sat opposite Jon for most of the journey, either looking to the outside, beyond the curtain or drinking red wine and having regular small meals. Jon had been taking the time to write down infantry data for his army, overseeing the numbers and statistics for the food rationing that Sansa had sent to White Harbor, ready for him, upon their arrival. Jon had been overlooking the numbers again and again and again, it not truly processing through his mind. He was almost sure to have given up with the document when they had passed the White Knife, onto the Kingsroad. But he still mulled it over as it was an easy excuse to avoid conversation. 

He felt much more at ease with what he was reading when they had arrived at Crewyn. Jon and his guests were hosted by Lord Cley Crewyn himself, only staying a day and a night before setting back onto the Kingsroad, toward Winterfell. Lord Crewyn and his men had joined the convoy on their journey, the sight of it was like an unstoppable snowstorm; tearing its way through the landscape.

The carriage had not been the best environment for writing down important information. It was rather noisy as they were surrounded by thousands of men and horses; the noise was almost deafening, it reminded Jon of the sound of war. The snow and thick mud of the Kingsroad had made the journey very bumpy and rather uncomfortable, causing Jon's handwriting to become almost unreadable. He knew he would have to rewrite all of the notes he had made so that it was legible for others to read. He had been given a varnished plank of wood that was cushioned underneath to ensure a less hazardous writing experience. He had noticed that he had been staring at Sansa's neat and elegant script on the adjacent piece of parchment; she had taken so much time to ensure that all details were available to him. He traced his thumb over the ink that spelt out his name, she always wrote it in such a delicate way. He stared at the smudge of ink at the bottom of the fifth page of parchment, his eyes going out of focus as he went into his thoughts.

Jon had been restless during the course of this journey, wanting nothing more than to see his family once again. He had missed Sansa's company and her persistent counsel. He was mostly looking forward to greeting his little half-sister and younger half-brother, Arya and Bran. It had been many years since he had seen them. He remembers Arya as a physically very small but tenacious young girl, who never wanted the life that was laid out for her; the life of a Lady. But instead, dreamed of wielding a sword and fighting alongside her brothers in the defence of the North. She was a young wolf in the skin of a Lady. She was more like her Lord father than her Lady mother, both in looks and in temperament. She treated Jon with the same love that she showed to her other siblings, she never treated him differently. He wondered if she was still short and skinny with that cheeky smile that Jon adored.

He also wondered how Bran had survived all those years without the use of his legs. Where has his disabled brother been all of those years? The last time he saw Bran, the young boy was lying in a bed in a coma, helpless and with very little chance of ever waking up. Bran had been a kind but sometimes defiant child, adored by his Lady Mother. Jon had not been given the opportunity to talk to the young man about what happened to him, how he has coped with the loss of his mobility. Jon wanted nothing more than to just sit with them both, besides a roaring fire and hear their stories; no matter how gruesome or dark they were. He just wanted to relearn his siblings, the same way he had relearnt Sansa.

Jon had so many questions that needed answering, so much time that he needed to catch up on. He felt like he needed to replenish his thoughts and his soul with the strength of his Northern family. The Northern people were often misunderstood as foolish; too concerned to do whatever was right, rather than what was in their best interests. Perhaps a part of that was true but Jon knew the North better than he knew himself. He knew his people to be loyal and fiercely protective of their own. They were not the type to lie and cheat their way out of a situation but instead, they tackled it head-on with sheer determination and integrity. They were a pack that stood together and fought together.

Another distinction, that caused the North to be different from other Kingdoms, was that of the new age of the Starks. This had been started by himself and Sansa through their accomplishments at the Battle of the Bastards, as it was commonly known. Unlike Arya's wolf-like temperament and valour, Sansa was not quite like her sister, she was not the usual Northern girl. She had all of the essential qualities, but there something in her that was like her Lady Mother, not just her red hair, but a certain type of strength and a way of thinking that was different to others. Jon felt that he also had this quality; they both thought outside of the norm, pragmatic leaders that often considered situations from different perspectives.

He hoped that she would be able to see this point of view when he sees her next.

Jon Snow sat within the confines of the large carriage, feeling rather claustrophobic. He had wanted to ride back to Winterfell on a horse, that Daenerys Targaryen would have provided, but he knew that it was important to stay by the silver-haired queen's side. It was a testing time for them both but in rather different ways. Daenerys was coming to introduce herself to a people that she does not know but has promised to help in time of warfare. Whereas Jon had to make sure she abides by her promise and convince his people that the allegiance was a good idea. He could tell that she felt uneasy, her brow often frowned, her eyes gazing out of the carriage window with a distant look on her face. She was having a hard time taking it all in, as this was not what she had envisaged for her conquest of Westeros to be; playing guest in someone else's house.

Jon drew himself away from his failed attempt at writing and examined her face, the fading daylight flooded the carriage, casting her into a scene fit for a portrait. She was unlike anyone he had ever seen. He was not particularly fond of her silver hair, which was very unlike the blonde heads of the Lannisters, much lighter in colour, almost completely white. Her skin was tanned from a lifetime in the Essos sunlight. She features an almost child-like complexion but has been aged prematurely from having to grow up far too early. This was a quality he had seen before from many women in his life, those who are present and those who had passed.

She was undeniably beautiful, the face of a House that had long passed. She looked like she had been touched by winter but did not possess the qualities of a true winter's maiden. Jon did not refuse himself of the truth, he did find her very attractive. Her features were beyond pleasant and her body would be able to please any man. But there was a quality of her nature, an idiosyncrasy, that he found to be very off-putting. She did not hold herself in a manner that he found to be appealing.  


He had met women like her before; self-assured and driven. A long time ago, he found these qualities to be what he was looking for within a partner. Although her qualities were not unlike anything he had encountered during his younger years, she had an ideology that did not sit well with Jon. It was that her way of seeing the world; she presented the idea that her way of ruling and her beliefs were the right and only way. Jon had been brought up with the ideals of his Lord father and he strongly believed that one must hear his people and do what was right by them. Honour was far too valuable to be dismissed and sometimes you have to bring people together, despite belief. 

This way of seeing things was sometimes, perhaps, not the ideal solution to every problem but Jon knew it worked far better than her way. These qualms he dared not speak to anyone, as he knew they could alter or completely ruin the plans he had so desperately worked for.

Daenerys started to pull at the cuff of her thick white coat. Jon saw these administrations as a sign of her anxieties and knew immediately it was best to comfort her. He put aside his feather quill and secured the pot of ink, placing down the documents. He moved to Daenery's side, gaining her attention. She turned away from the window, looking at Jon with her violet eyes, which were so deep and rich in colour, one could almost mistake them for blue. Jon had never seen anyone within Westeros with eyes quite like those, even Maester Aemon's (who was also a member of the Targaryen bloodline) eyes were not violet, as they had turned white from becoming blind in his old age.

He took her hand within his and held it gently, "is everything quite alright?" Jon asked Daenerys softly, stroking her hand with his thumb. She softened into him, a small smile upon her lips as she looked from him to the outside of the window.

"It's just… it is not quite what I had imagined," Daenerys explained quietly, her voice gentle, a soft whisper that Jon found charming. He was finding it hard to summon a response due to the great weight he felt upon his chest. "I had thought the North would be filled with many towns or… vast villages occupied with people. No, oh…" She sighed, "I'm not sure what I mean. It's just… I hadn't expected to see so much scenery, miles and miles of woodlands, fields, and snow. Such a little amount of people. You must have felt so isolated." Her last comment surprised Jon, he did not see this land as isolating but rather, as welcoming, comforting, beautiful. It was home.

"That's because you're not from here." Daenerys gave Jon a disapproving look at this. "What I mean to say is that you're not from the North. Anyone else would see it as empty but we Northerners see it as beautiful and free." Jon gave her a quick smile, which she did not acknowledge and instead, she returned to looking back outside the window, taking her hand out of his grasp. She did not take lightly to being reminded of her place; that she was, in many ways, a foreigner to her homeland.

Jon allowed this moment of silence to take him over again. The sound of thousands of horses hooves stomped around them, he felt like an outsider even though he was so close to home. He had pushed himself beyond his boundaries, pulling himself thin and in need of restoring. The year that had past them was one of political importance for the future of the living. Jon felt sick every time he was reminded of the war that was to come. He was the leading force in arranging the defence against of the Army of the Dead. 

He hadn't expected so much of his time to be spent southward, instead of spending it with his people in their preparations. He couldn't help but wonder what he was going home to. There was sure to be discourse because of his choice to cast down his position as King of the North, he knew he would be arriving back to a people who were at unrest. But if they knew and had seen what he had, his people would have been quick to gain the assistance of a ruler like Daenerys Targaryen, without a doubt.

She had possession of the largest army within Westeros and even though she was not the wealthiest Head of House, she had something worth more than any gold; her dragons and dragon glass. This made her a force to be reckoned with and Jon Snow would rather have her on his side than to be against her. He had heard what she did to her enemies and it was a fate he did not want to face. This meant that he had to make hard choices and sacrifices that made it difficult for him to sleep at night. Despite the fact that she had been enthusiastic to share his bed, keeping it warm for him, giving him the opportunity to release tension that he holding onto. Before he could get lost within his feelings of guilt and worry, Jon and Daenerys were greeted by one of Daenerys' generals on horseback, besides their carriage window.

"We're arriving." He notified them with a shout in his mother tongue of High Valyarian. Daenerys immediately became animated, moving forward to look gain a view of the winter castle. 

Confused, Jon looked past her to see his home, Winterfell, standing tall upon the top of a hill. It was blanketed in thick snow, surrounded by thousands of huts in the battlements, the fire pits could be seen from this distance. It seemed to be busting with activity, Sansa had definitely undertaken the task he had left to her. Daenerys looked with wide eyes at Jon's home, completely still and obviously filled with nerves. Jon's heart fluttered as he saw it once again, he had finally returned. But he felt a bittersweet sadness cast itself over him quickly, he was home but he was not safe.

"What will happen once we arrive?" Jon heard Daenerys' small voice, she looked at him with a stern look. She clearly was trying to suppress her feeling of anxiety and instead, wanted to convey the air of a fierce leader. He much preferred it when she was genuine with her emotions.

"We will be greeted by the Northern houses, those have sworn their allegiances to House Stark and members of my household. That will include my family, as well as the family representatives from House Mormont of Bear Island, House Cerwyn will also join us, House Glover, the Umbers, the Hornwoods…" Jon could tell that Daenerys that stop listening to him. He took her hand once again to gain back her attention causing her to briefly smile at him.

"We will be greeted. Then you'll be shown to your living quarters, where you can rest before the feast tonight." He moved closer to her, trying to gain some sort of physical contact. He knew that she responded better to his touch than to his words.

"Everything will be okay," Jon lent into her placing a soft kiss upon her lips, of which she responded to positively, kissing him back. She moulded into his chest, placing a hand on his thigh trying to deepen the kiss. He knew that she would want him to have her once again before they were to arrive through the gates. But he couldn't bring himself to smell of her sex and fill her with his seed, just before he was to greet his family. Even though he knew the feeling of spending himself inside of her would bring him great relief, he just couldn't bring himself do it. He felt different now, as he was so close to home. 

Instead, he released himself from her kiss. She seemed disappointed but unlimitedly, far more relaxed, now smiling with confidence. Jon knew he had managed to calm her nerves, which was a very important task in the hopes of keeping her favour.

They travelled from the Kingsroad by Winter Town into Winterfell through the east gate. The atmosphere was tense, many of the townsfolk stood, watching them pass by. Jon felt a pressure in the back of his throat and tension in his chest that did not seem to want to budge. Only a handful of the carriages followed them into the grounds of Winterfell, as the rest of the soldiers continued travelling toward the Battlements to set up camp. Only Jon and his Northern guests, as well as his personal party, Daenerys and her advisors, entered into Winterfell; alongside their belongings.

The castle was cluttered with people, all of which had stopped their individual tasks to greet the party. They stopped in the courtyard outside of the Guest House and Jon could feel the number of eyes that were upon him. He looked to Daenerys, who was staring ahead, that stern look once again on her face. He took a deep breath, before exiting the carriage. Jon scanned the courtyard, taking it all in. Around him were groups of people all organised into neat lines; the principal workers of Winterfell were in a far corner talking excitedly amongst themselves. Members of the Northern households, as well as those from the Erie and the lords of Riverrun, were standing to Jon's right. They were all looking to him with an expression of unease and interest. Jon nodded to Lady Mormont, a small girl perhaps of the age of one and ten but she did not return his nod. Instead, she looked past him to the carriage he had just exited.

Jon looked back into the carriage and offered his hand to Daenerys. She took it and followed him into the courtyard, her mouth slightly open as she gazed around her. Clearly, she had not expected Winterfell to be quite so grand. She looked up at the tall towers and down at the people surrounding them. Jon understood the way she felt; she was now the outsider. This moment reminded him of the day King Robert Baratheon had come to Winterfell, casting a shadow onto House Stark and starting the events that changed all their lives in Westeros. Jon had just wished he wasn't the one intruding into Winterfell, but instead, standing beside his House and greeting the guests, much like his father had done that day.

He returned to scanning the courtyard, in the hopes of seeing his family. To his left, beside the Great Keep, there they were all standing in a line. His siblings, Arya and Bran, with Samwell Tarly and Gilly, who was holding baby Sam, alongside them. Brienne of Tarth was positioned behind Arya with her hand upon her the hilt of her sword, looking beyond Jon to the rest of the party. But Jon did not see the rest of them, instead, his eyes were glued to Arya and Bran. His heart flooded with joy and he could not help himself, he left Daenerys standing alone by the carriage and walked enthusiastically towards the pair. A great smile came to his face, he had not felt this way in many moons.

Arya looked nervous to see him, her body tense. She was still short and skinny, but there was a look on her face, she looked craven and hollow. His Lord Father had said that Arya looks and acted much like her aunt, Lyanna. Jon wondered if the young woman that stood in front of him was like the aunt he never knew; wild and free. As he neared her, he could see that there was a glint in her eyes that Jon knew she had experienced great pain. She too had grown up before her time. But her tense demeanour soon softened as she saw Jon walking towards her, she opened her arms and collided with him in a tight hug. He held onto her fiercely, not wanting to let go, never wanting to lose her again. He hadn't experienced this type of pure love in many years, to be able to see his dearest sister once again, had brought him joy that he thought unimaginable.

"I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you! I thought you had died, I thought I would never see you again." Jon exclaimed as he let go of her. She smiled sweetly at him, her cheeks flushed from happiness.

"It would be quite hard to get rid of me." She replied, raising an eyebrow, tilting her chin upwards towards him. Jon smiled at her once more, touching her shoulder briefly before turning his attention to his brother.

"Bran, you've grown so much!" Jon heard himself saying and it was true, his younger brother had grown into a man since he had last seen him. Now tall with long limbs, a long face and those dark brown eyes, Jon felt a great sense of accomplishment as he saw him once again. He bent down to his brother, who sat in a wheelchair covered in many layers of furs, and hugged him. Bran seemed excited to see him but there was a sense that something was not quite right with his brother.

"It's good to see you again. I must speak with you about something urgent." Bran spoke to Jon quietly in his ear, his voice far more monotone than it had been in Jon's memory. Jon did not ask for more details, as he could tell that this was not the right place to be drawing attention to a private matter. Instead, he nodded at his brother and looked at him, they smiled at each other.

Jon walked down the line toward Samwell Tarly, his closest friend. Sam looked at Jon with a great sense of relief, they had not seen each other since Sam's departure from the Castle Black. Now they reunited, Sam still a man of the Night's Watch and Jon, the commander of a different castle. So much had changed, they were very different men now. Jon was surprised to see his friend in his home but did not care to ask questions as they embraced in a quick hug, slapping each other on the back and saying their 'hellos'. But Jon felt somewhat uneasy, he had not seen Sansa beside her brother, as she should be as the Lady of Winterfell. Jon's heart raced as he panicked, what if she was so angry with him she did not want to see him?

"Arya, where's Sansa?" He mustered up the courage to ask. Arya looked surprised by the concern and pain in his voice, whereas Bran simply studied Jon with a plain expression.

"She was just looking for Ghost-" Arya stopped talking as she caught sight o her sister, her eyes looked past Jon.

Jon quickly turned around and saw Sansa walking towards him from the archway that leads from the Goodswood. Besides her was Ghost, gigantic as ever and bounding toward him with enthusiasm.

"Come here, boy!" Jon shouted, causing many people, which included their guests, to jump and stare at him with agitated expressions. Ghost leapt at Jon, landing by his master's feet and sniffing him gladly. Jon scratched his companion's head, looking down at the great dire wolf with a feeling of solace. He continued to look Ghost over as Sansa walked toward him. But he stopped once he felt her presence, as he stood up, he couldn't help but feel in awe of her beauty.

She stood tall in a new dress and style that made her fit as a leader of the North. To his great relief, she did not look at him with any disdain or anger, but instead, she smiled at him. Not the smile that she gave to others, a smile that only went the surface of her lips but instead, the smile that made her eyes twinkle and pierce Jon through the chest. He immediately went to her, causing him to forget about anyone else, forgetting his place and his situation. At that moment, it did not matter to him that they were at war, or that he should restrain himself, or that Daenerys was watching him with Tyrion Lannister and Jorah Mormont by her side. None of that mattered as he brought Sansa into his arms. He held her by the waist, his arms finding their way underneath her cloak, clutching onto her with the fear that she might let go. He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent; it sweet and sharp like lemon mixed the musk of firewood. It enthralled him, consumed him unlike anything else. It made him feel things that he did not quite understand.

Sansa breathed against him, giving him her warmth, her breasts felt soft pressed against his chest. He had missed her in ways that he had not quite realised. He had needed her in ways that were new to him. He held her in a way that he felt were different to his other siblings. That realisation made him uncomfortable but he did not let go, he held onto her with the grasp and tenderness of a lover.

"I've missed you," He rasped into her ear, barely finding the words to articulate what he wanted to say. She moved her head away from the crook of his neck, her eyes explored his eyes before finding his lips. Her pupils were dilated wider than usual, deep dark pools of mystery stared into him. He knew that she could read his will if she only had the coverage to do so. Jon felt unsure by what her eyes were telling him. He has always had a troubling time deciphering the inner workings of her mind, forever finding himself confused and not privy to her thoughts of him. But he could not deny that he felt a sense of understanding in the way she lightly trembled under his touch and how she breathed deeply against him, her tongue wetting her lip as she watched him. He hoped that this meant that he was not completely alone in this feeling and that she too felt the shift and change. He had always appreciated her companionship, even when she tested him and he grew frustrated with her. But now, after many months in the company of others, with the warmth of another in his bed, he found the way her body felt against his to be captivating. There was something new between them. But it was a hollow victory that he did not know if he found any pleasure in.

"We cannot talk here but come to my chambers after your guests are comfortable, there many things we need to discuss. It is crucial that we do." Sansa whispered to Jon, in quick, hushed tones, her eyes not leaving his. He was surprised that she did not look to him with any sort of indignation but instead, worry. She seemed to be greatly worried for him. This warmed and concerned Jon in equal measures.

Jon replied, agreeing with her, still holding onto her waist by one hand. He had not realised quite how long they had been embracing, staring into each other's eyes and breathing in the other one's air. Now with many eyes upon them, he snapped back out of the high of his jubilation and merriment, back into reality and into who he was meant to be. He felt himself become stern and cold outside of her touch, expressionless once again, back to the task at hand. Sansa went to walk toward her household, before turning back to him, flakes of delicate white snow-crowned her auburn hair like tiny crystals, as pure as her skin. 

Her eyes found him and with a warm smile, she spoke, "It is good to have you home."

Jon smiled at her, a fluttering feeling filling his chest up like it had when she had gifted him his cloak. He wanted to compliment her on her craftsmanship, as she had once again created another piece of clothing that was truly remarkable. But she left him before he was able, so instead, he watched her leave. Past Sansa, Jon could see Arya examining them with her hard eyes. Looking at every fine detail, not wanting to miss a second. She had an odd expression on her face as if she had just seen something quite strange and unexpected. Jon hoped that no one else shared these thoughts.

He scanned the courtyard once more, surprised and confused not to see Petyr Baelish watching them all from a corner with his small, intrusive eyes. This made Jon feel uneasy but somewhat relieved. He would need to bring that up with Sansa later on, amongst other important topics.

Jon sighed and walked back to Daenerys and his other guests, who were talking between themselves. Jorah Mormont looked at Lady Mormont with a look that signified his nerves, clearly anxious and uncomfortable to see his kin. Tyrion Lannister looked to Sansa with a sense of familiarity, his eyes soft and a small smile upon his face. Jon did not like the way he looked at her. But he put this feeling to the side and went to Daenerys, who was becoming restless from a lack of action, already frustrated from being stared at by the Northerners. Jon went to her side and offered his arm to her with a forced smile on his lips. He hoped that she would not look into his eyes and see what he was feeling at that moment. He guided her to his household, dreading introducing her to them.

What surprised Jon was how gracious Daenerys was during this whole intense process. It was obvious from the atmosphere and a rather unfriendly welcome that Daenerys was not wanted within the walls of Winterfell, especially with her choices of advisors. But she took on this clear sign of unfriendliness in her stride, holding her head high with a pleasant but empty smile. Jon admired her at this moment, clearly, she was taking this first meeting very seriously, knowing that there was a lot at stake.

Jon leads Daenerys to Sansa first, though his heart pounded in his chest begging for him not to. But it was the procedure that the North adhered to for centuries; the Lord and Lady of Winterfell would be first to receive any guest. Sansa looked at Daenerys with a very guarded and cautious look, there was something in her eyes that Jon could not quite decipher. She watched Daenerys will great intensity, looking the young queen over from her clothing to her hair and features, even at the way Daenerys held onto Jon's arm. There was a fierceness to the way Sansa held herself.

"Sansa," Jon's voice was quite weak when he addressed his sister, "I have the pleasure of introducing to you Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen." Sansa stared at Daenerys, not quite reacting to Jon's words straight away. Her expression was odd as if she could not quite make up her mind of how she was going to react to meeting Daenerys, so instead, she stared her down. After those gruelling seconds, Sansa's face erupted with a large friendly smile.

"Your Grace, welcome to our home. I am glad to finally meet your acquaintance." She spoke in with a sweet tone, summoning all of the loveliness and politeness of a Lady. She bowed her head as a sign of courtesy but did not bow to her. Her smile dropped as she saw Daenerys gloved hand against Jon’s. 

“Winterfell is yours, your grace.” Jon inhaled sharply, he knew that this phrase was used by Lords and Ladies to show respect to their monarch. But he had not expected to hear the words escape Sansa’s mouth. She spoke these simple words with the same cadence she had spoken to Ramsey Bolton, he remembers, feeling completely unsettled by her demeanour. 

He glanced to his side to see that Daenerys seemed to be quite shaken by Sansa, she gulped and nodded her head with a wavering smile. Jon was quick to try to end their blazing eye contact. 

"Daenerys, this is my half-sister and the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark." Daenerys smiled fondly at Sansa, swallowing her feelings of nerves and looked up at Sansa with a look of relief.

"The pleasure is mine. It is an honour to finally meet the Lady of Winterfell. I hope that our allegiance will continue during this difficult time." Sansa gave another small smile and bow to Daenerys, holding the smile as Jon and Daenerys look down the line to Bran. But Jon could see that Sansa smile dropped as soon as they felt her, her face returning back to a neutral expression as she looked over to the Lord and Ladies of the North. She had always been far too good at pretending.

Jon continued to introduce Daenerys to the rest of his kin, they all reacted in a similar tone to Sansa. Clearly forced smiles and politeness that Daenerys didn't seem to see. As they went toward Sam, Jon gave him a judicious smile but Sam looked at Daenerys with anguish. He was tormented to see her and before Jon could say his name, Sam stormed off with Gilly right behind him.

"What have I done to cause such offence?" Daenerys asked Jon, she seemed hurt to be treated in such a way.

"That was Samwell Tarly. You burnt his father and brother alive." Jon and Daenerys looked back at Bran, who stared up at Daenerys not faltering his gaze. Daenerys couldn't hold his stare, she looked shocked as she became small in herself, her eyes fixated on the floor. A rage flooded through Jon unlike any he had felt in a long time. He was ashamed to bring this woman to his home, to introduce her to his family and closest friends. Jon felt sick to have her on his arm, to have her around his family and his dearest friend. He wanted nothing more than to leave her there and go after Sam but he knew he couldn't. He wanted to cast her aside as a traitor, reprimand her for her actions. To see her as cruel and evil because there was a bigger picture, so much larger than anyone's feelings, as much as it hurt him so. He hated that he had to ignore the crimes of war in the hopes of obtaining and maintaining a strong wartime ally. It made him sick of himself.

Jon felt ridged and doll-like as he leads Daenerys toward the Northern Lords and Ladies, his heart pounding in his chest and his palms sweaty. Arya pushed Bran's wheelchair, Sansa right by her side and Brienne behind them. They all passed the carriages, toward the other side of the courtyard, when they were stopped in their tracks by a voice behind them.

"So you grew your hair out, my Lady." Jon looked back to see Gendry, standing behind Ayra. Ser Davos looked enraged and went to the boy quickly, ready to reprimand him for speaking out of term. Jon looked to his sister, she was shocked, as if she had heard the voice of a ghost. Sansa looked down at her sister in confusion before looking back at the man behind them. 

But Arya did not look to her siblings, instead, she slowly turned back to face Gendry. Jon could not see Arya's expression but Gendry smiled at her sweetly. He sighed a deep sigh of relief, his eyes filled with a great amount of emotion. He studied her, taking her into his memory. She walked toward him slowly, clearly uneasy on her feet. Ser Davos stopped walking toward Gendry when he saw the look on Arya's face.

Gendry embraced her, holding onto Arya tightly. After a moment, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, finally allowing herself to give in. Arya was not the type of girl that easily showed affection, especially in public. So it surprised many that she allowed herself to be captured in a moment that was sweet and full of caring. Gendry was talking into her ear, his hands moving up Arya's back into her hair. Jon looked to Sansa, who shared his expression of shock, she glanced at him so they could share this moment together.

"Arya, who exactly is this?" Sansa called after her sister.

-

After the somewhat awkward introductions in the courtyard, Jon left Daenerys with her people to undergo settling into her quarters in the Guest House. He felt so relieved to be finally rid of that tension and weight, the moment he had been dreading was finally over and now, he could relax in his chambers before going to Sansa's quarters. But he was not met with Sansa alone; she was joined by Bran, Arya, Sam, and Ser Davos. The Knight looked to Jon with confusion on his face, as Jon arrived, watching his Lord take his place by the fire.

Then they told him. The news that he never thought he would ever hear.

That sense of relief was soon replaced with an overwhelming lump in Jon's throat. He felt as if someone had shot an arrow through his chest and then again into his stomach. He was numb but also as if his body was on fire with pain, mouth dry and brow sweating. He couldn't summon the moisture to coat his throat in order to vocalise a response. He sat in front of the fireplace, the flames burning his checks; the fire of a dragon.  
Dragons. 

The dragon's blood coursed through his veins and he never knew, never even had an inkling of what the truth might have been. He could register Samwell Tarly's quick and panicked voice but it was just muffled words to him now, he could not bring himself to focus on what he was being said.

Jon Snow had lived his life as Eddard Stark's bastard, a motherless child that was brought back from a war. He had been condemned and humiliated his whole life because of the act of his birth. He had hated living the life of a bastard, he resented never knowing who his mother was. He had lived a life filled with questions that never got answered; until now. Jon's father was never the honourable and loyal Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell but instead, the beloved Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. The very much dead prince. 

This shocked Jon, it made his fingers tingle and his knee-jerk. But the thing that gave Jon comfort and relief was finally, after his entire life of not knowing, he could say who his mother was. Lyanna Stark, the Lady Wolf of Winterfell, the aunt that got kidnapped and died. All of this was a part of a story that simply wasn't true. She had never been kidnapped but instead, ran away to be with the man that she loved. Lyanna, a betrothed woman ran away from her home to be with the prince of the seven kingdoms, who was already married and a father to two children. Their love affair had started a war, it had killed thousands, destroyed a dynasty, it had ruined so many lives. All for the sake of Jon Snow and the love his parents shared for each other.

Jon sat in a wooden chair beside the fireplace in Sansa's living quarters. Arya sat opposite him, looking at him but threw him, not truly processing the information she just been given. Bran sat in his wheelchair to Jon's side, examining Jon's face with the look of excitement.

"Do you understand what this means?" Ser Davos' voice broke through the ringing in Jon's ears, "that all of those fucking wars were for nothing. All of those who died during the war of the five kings was for nothing… " He sounded hurt, his voice small, barely a whisper that was said to himself as he stood by the door. Sam was beside him, watching Jon very nervously, unable to contain himself.

"Men will always go to war. Even if the truth had been known, thousands of men would have fought for the right to sit on that awful throne. Men's greed for power is far stronger than their rectitude." Sansa replied to Davos from the corner. She sat behind her desk, almost in the shadows and looked to Davos with a very stern expression. She seemed to be upset by the Knight's words, feeling as if he was placing blame onto Jon for what had happened. Jon was thankful but felt somewhat disconcerted by her choice of words about members of his sex. In his vulnerable state, he felt as if they applied to him.

Jon looked back to his younger sister… Well, cousin, Arya. Who sat looking very small and bewildered, in the firelight Jon could see tears flickering on her eyelids. She looked lost and her mind dancing in the flames of truth. "Father lied for all of those years…" Her voice was hoarse, she seemed to be fighting the urge to cry to her father's memory. Jon felt the same, for he too, wanted nothing more than to wallow in his misery.

"He did it to protect Jon," Sam explained in a high- pitched tone, his voice filled with nerves. He still seemed very uncomfortable by what had happened in the courtyard, Jon yearned to explain to him his situation and express his deepest and sincerest apologies. But at that moment, he couldn't even find the words to say his own name.

"But why say that Jon was our brother? Why lie to us? Why not just tell us the truth?!" Arya was starting to become angry, her voice rising. She was asking the questions that Jon felt too numb to ask himself. Why? Why was a very good place to start? Jon was swimming in a world of questions, an unending stream of confusion and uneasiness. He couldn't bring himself to elevate away from this treacherous place. He wanted to be free of his confines and go into the Godswood, where he might find an answer underneath the Heart Tree. A place where he could collect his thoughts and feel as if he belonged where he stood.

"If father had relieved the truth, Robert Baratheon would have murdered Jon without a second thought." Sansa's cold and stern voice hit Jon, causing him to stop spiralling. He turned his face in her direction but didn't lift his eyes to hers, in fear of what he might see there. "He hated every and any Targaryen because he blamed them for the death of his betrothed. He would especially have murdered Jon, not just because of his personal feelings towards him but because… Jon is the heir to the Iron Throne."

Jon snapped his eyes to Sansa, her words hit him like a thousand more arrows into his chest. They pierced his lungs, causing him to be unable to catch his breath, he needed to gasp for air but he couldn't open his mouth. There was a piercing scream was in his ear but no one spoke. His skin was on fire but no flame touched his skin, he felt as if he was out of control. His whole world, his whole life, his whole perspective was shattered. He was the heir to the Iron Throne. In this state, he couldn't fathom how this could be.

"What? I thought that dragon queen was?" Arya asked on Jon's behalf, unbeknownst to her, she was his saviour at that moment. Her words refocused him out of his panic. The whole room felt like it was slowly starting to spin but he could not allow himself to succumb to unconsciousness. So instead, he swallowed the burning bile at the back of his throat and tried to focus on the people around him.

"She never has been. Jon is the legitimate son of the oldest Targaryen prince. Rhaegar annulled his first marriage before marrying our Aunt, meaning that Jon is the legitimate son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. If Rhaegar had lived and become king, Jon would be the second male in line to the throne. That's to say if Rhaegar's first children hadn't been discarded when in consideration for the throne, due to the annulment to their mother. Even though Jon had two older half-siblings, one was female, so, therefore, she would have been queen alongside her brother. Because of the traditions of inter-family marriage in the Targaryen lineage." Everyone in the whole room becomes very uneasy by Bran's words.

"But Jon's brother and sister were murdered by the Mountain, leaving Jon to be the last surviving male heir of Rhaegar Targaryen… Daenerys' older brother." Then it hit Jon, Daenerys was his… his… Aunt. By blood. His throat was coated once again in bile, he felt like he could be sick as images of Daenerys' naked body came flashing into his mind.

Despite this, Bran continued explaining calmly and slowly, his words directed to Jon. "Daenerys Targaryen has no claim to the Iron Throne as long as Jon is alive, for he has the better claim." Bran shared a very meaningful look to Jon, encouraging his cousin to see beyond his words. But Jon couldn't do it, not then, not at that moment.

The atmosphere within the room was changing as others were starting to become frustrated. Most of all were Arya, she seemed to be unable to contain her emotions, rejecting the possibility that Jon might not be the person she had thought him to be. Jon did not blame her, for he too rejected this information.  
She was becoming protective over her family as if this information had the ability to rip them all apart. Jon feared that she was right to feel this way because he wondered if this revelation, this unwanted announcement, is the catalyst to change of everything he once knew. His life will never be the same.

"But Jon doesn't want the Iron Throne, so what does it matter?" Arya turned to Ser Davos, her anger starting to seep out of her, beginning to bare her teeth.

"It bloody well does matter!" He moved toward her, talking to her in agitated tones. "Either way, if Jon wants to rule the Iron Throne, he'll have to fight against the whole of Daenerys' bloody army and her dragons! As well Cersei's army. Which is very unlikely he'll do and even if he does, the likelihood of him surviving is slim. But if he is to want a place within Winterfell and not to be seen as an outsider-" He gestured animatedly, his accident thick and his brow raised, "for which, you will be seen as, Jon-" Davos directed this to Jon alone but did not look to him as he said the words.

"He needs to have a better claim than just the son of Lyanna Stark." It was foreign and felt incongruous to be called Lyanna Stark's son, he was not sure if he would ever feel that these words belonged to him. They were still the words that allowed Jon to finally speak.

"What do you mean?" His voice came weaker than he expected. Arya and Davos snapped their heads to Jon as if they forgot that he was not just as much a part of this conversations as they were. The way that the discussion was taking place made Jon assume they believed him to be an outsider on the topics of his life.

"I'm going to speak frankly." Davos seemed to have noticed that Jon was struggling. He softened his tone, now talking in a calm and slower pace. As if he was talking to an ill child that needed their diagnostic explaining to them.

"The northerners already don't like you very much for getting rid of your crown. They don't like you for bringing the dragons and their mother back to their home. They don't care that it's for their best interests because they're too stuck in their pasts and traditions. If they are to find out that the Lord of Winterfell is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the man that many of them and their families went to war against, they will not except you…" Jon knew that he was right, it made so much sense. How could he ask for his people to completely accept him as the son of a Targaryen when he has already done so much to motivate their distrust?

"If those poncey high lords don't accept Jon, after everything he has done for them, then they are a bunch of fucking cowards! That will be an act of treason and betrayal!" Arya shouted.

Jon cloaked himself in the nauseating and suffocating feeling of self-pity. Unable to lift himself out of this depressed state, he felt a slow but powerful bubbling in his chest. He could sense that he was becoming more angry, furious with those around him, despite his connections to them. How dare they discuss his future with so little regard to his opinion? 

He arose from his chair, trying to navigate his frustration into something other than any potential vocal slander, which he knew would satisfy his outrage. He couldn't stand this conversation anymore. A part of Jon started to twist and churn, he processed the topics in his mind and almost felt in agreement with Arya. This caused his anger to move around his body like thick sludge; coarse and undignified.

"Jon, do you not remember what Lord Royce said to you before you left to go to Dragonstone?" Sansa had arisen from her chair in the corner also, all of her energy was fixated onto Jon. She could sense his anger, she could feel his discomfort and unsettled mixed feelings. She demanded his attention, she beseeched for him to listen to her, and he did, gladly.

"He said that the Targaryens cannot be trusted. Do you really want to risk that being you as well? You need to think of what might make them trust you again, beyond any doubt." She was trying to focus him, out of everyone there, she did not ignore him.

"But first, you need to decide what you want," everyone turned their attention to Sam, at the other side of the room. "If you want the Iron Throne, then go get it.  


You're more entitled to it than any other Lord or Lady out there. But I like to think that I know you rather well and I know that you would want to stay here, in your home… But to gain the same -I don't know- status, I suppose, as you once had and have now, you’ll need to be a Stark. Not a Targaryen." He stated the obvious conclusion but there was something in his tone that made Jon feel very uneasy. He stated his last sentence with an incredible amount of weight.

"He's right! You know that the most important name in the North is Stark. Anyone from Bear Island all the way to Widow's Watch will support and follow the Starks. They will never allow a Southern leader to rule them, you will lose any and all respect if that's what you choose to do. You know this. Which means…" Sansa's face started to contort into confusion, panic filled her eyes, and she stared at Sam with a look of anguish.

"Which means… you'll have to marry… a-a Stark." Sam finished Sansa's sentence, looking smaller than ever. Jon snapped his head back to Sansa, suffocating in shock and feeling dizzy from the pain of this situation. She stepped back as if Sam had slapped her. She stared at her desk, her eyes unseeing and swimming in consternation. Jon wanted to go to her but couldn't bring himself to. He wasn't able to find a way to digest what was happening to him.

"What?!" Arya exclaimed loudly, outraged by this suggestion.

"It is the best way to legitimise your place within Winterfell. Because, yes, you won back the castle and you're trying to save everyone's lives but that can all be forgotten when pride is in the way. But… if you were to marry a Stark, it is the best way for your claim over Winterfell and your place here to never be questioned." Sam was flustered, his cheeks crimson and his brow sweaty.

He tried to speak to Jon over the sound of Arya's continuous vocalisation of her astonishment and alarm. Arya bickered with the men around her, standing from her chair to voice her disagreements in a very loud fashion. She was unable to comprehend the situation, as she did not feel that Jon would need to stake his place, because, to her, he was already family. He was already deserving of his leadership role and of respect.

"I'm not marrying my brother!" Arya shouted at Davos, causing the two men to stop their arguments with her.

"Well, technically, he's not your brother but instead, your cousin-"

"It wouldn't be you that would need to marry Jon, anyway. It would need to be Sansa." Bran explained to Arya calmly, his voice cutting the tension in the room as if it were his dead Lord father's longsword.

"You're right." Davos moved passed Bran, cornering Jon beside Sansa. He was almost manic in his intensity. He looked at Jon with wide eyes that did not seem to blink. This did not help Jon's feeling of panic, the room was spinning more than ever. The people was blurs and all he could feel was the warmth of Davos' breath and the cold touch of Sansa's fingers against his.

"Jon, just listen. Sansa is the eldest surviving child of Ned- Lord Stark and Lady Catelyn. She's the heir to Winterfell and first in line to the throne of the North. She is the only person that can give you the marriage required to secure your place in Winterfell. As Bran will not claim the title of Lord of Winterfell, the future of House Stark will be Sansa's children. Not yours and not you."

"What the fuck-?!" That was the last straw for Jon, he stepped to Davos with fury in his body. He could not stand that his and Sansa's futures were being discussed so liberally, it filled him with disgust. The trepidation he was feeling was bursting out of him, channelling itself into fits of rage and violent tenderises.

Sansa was quick to see Jon's anger. She chimed in with a soft and polite voice. "I must ask that you all to leave. It is nearly time for the feast and we must be getting ready to be in attendance on time." They were not listening to her, but instead, continued to argue. Only Bran looked to his sister with a little but admiring smile on his lips, he watched her and saw his Lady mother talking.

Arya, Sam, and Ser Davos continued to voice their disapproval and their reasons for continuing this conversation. But Jon could not bear to hear it anymore, he panted and with a mighty roar, he shouted, "Now!" He banished them from the room, they were all quick to leave, looking rather disgruntled. No one knew how to deal with this situation. But once they had left, Jon started to follow, leaving Sansa alone in the room. He got to the door, his hand upon the handle when he heard her quiet voice.

"Please. Stay." She begged him, collapsing into a chair by the fire. He locked the door and joined her, deflating into a smaller version of himself. He had never left this way before. It was not like the feeling he encountered when in battle; as that is far more of a heart-pounding, blood-racing, adrenaline-filled fight to keep some of his strength. But this, this had sucked any energy he might have had right out of him. He did not know how to conduct himself. So he just sat there, slumped in his seat, not caring for formal dignitaries and politeness. He did not care for anything at that moment but to just stop the pounding pain in his head.

"How are you?" Sansa broke the long silence with a shaky voice. She peered at him through her eyelashes, clearly wary of his anger. He swallowed his pride and softened to her, knowing that his anger was not directed to her, so, therefore, he should not show her it.

"In all honesty, completely and utterly overwhelmed." Sansa sighed to this reply, readjusting herself in her seat, now leaning forward to talk to him. She seemed to be flustered as if she did not know how to vocalise her thoughts.

"Go on, just say it, whatever it is. I know you want to," he encouraged her, knowing that little she had to say would affect him right now.

"It's just… I had not expected that to go quite so… badly," She almost laughed in disbelief, "it was so awful." She brought a hand to her auburn hair, which became fiery embers within the light of the day. As the light cast its way into the room, she was completely illuminated into an exquisite picture. He acknowledged it but would allow himself to become lost in her beauty, for it would do him no good to entertain such troublesome thoughts.

"How long have you known?" He heard himself asking, still admiring her from within.

"Bran told me at the hour of the wolf. I must admit that I… cried when he told me," She smiled grimly at him. He wished that she did not look at him with pity in her eyes, he couldn't stand her seeing him that light.

"Why?" He didn't mean to sound hurt, but he could not help allowing the pain he was feeling to edge its way into his tone.

"It wasn't because I was disappointed. You know you are that a Stark to me, the fact that we do not share a father does not change that," there was a strange and heavy feeling between the two, neither of which could pinpoint exactly what it was, "I just… I thought of my father and the secret he had kept, and the way it changed my mother's life, and all of our lives. I just had wished we had known you were our cousin, it might have changed the way I treated you. I was awful… I was…. I am…" Sansa took a very deep sigh, her body deflating, returning to the back of her seat.

Jon felt like he knew what she meant, he wondered if they all known the truth, what his life might have looked like? Would he be there talking to Sansa, so openly? Would he even be within the walls of Winterfell? He might have never gone to the wall. He might have never been alive to see his first name day. All of these possibilities were causing Jon's brain to swim and ache so much that it felt like it could burst. He thought he was going to vomit, he thought he was going to pass out, he thought that he could die. He was unable to control the spinning of the room, the flashing of the lights, he could not control his rapid breathing anymore. But he felt a cold hand touch his cheek, grasping onto him frantically.

"Jon! Jon! Come back to me. Come back to me!" Sansa pleaded with him, standing over his shaking body, blocking the light and filling his senses with the scent of her sweet fragrance. She held onto his hand tightly, looking very panicked, clutching onto him and staring him down until he was calmer. By looking into her eyes, he was able to slow his breathing and tuck himself away from the mines of sheer panic. She looked at him with such great worry that he knew she would not allow him to fester in the depths of despair. He wondered if she placed her lips onto his, would it bring him the strength he needed to continue?

"It's going to be okay." She spoke these words more for herself than for him, returning to her seat. He knew that she did not believe her words, nor did she know of the final outcome. Her attempts to comfort him to almost a point of calm was an example of her great duty and loyalty to him. But the worries that plagued him would not be suppressed.

"You were right about the Northern lords. It's like what Layanna Mormont said; they know of no king in the North unless that name is Stark. I'm not a Stark…" he chuckled dryly to himself, "I knew I never was." He looked into the fire, allowing the warmth to overtake his cold form, engulfing him into a sense of realisation and acceptance. Yes, he was never a Stark, to begin with. But a part of him will always be a Stark, the same blood that ran through the people he calls family veins, runs through his too.

"You're more Stark than anyone I know… Well, perhaps, apart from Arya." Sansa was quick to reply, she seemed to be offended by his statement.

"They will never accept me now, Sansa." She looked at him with deep pain her eyes, she knew he was right but she seemed defiant to accept this. She wanted to right this wrong for him, to fight for her home, fight for her family, fight for her loved ones.

"You are right. I hate it but…" she sighed again, leaning forward, her expression promised that she was about to lecture him, "the lords of the court are far from happy. I have barely been keeping their trust in you… they've… they've-"

"What is it? What's happened?" He was starting to panic again.

"There was a suggestion that they might want me as their monarch, instead. I've tried to put these ideas out, trying to stop them from developing into action. But be warned, once they've put their mind to it, it is very possible that it could happen… Not that I would want that!!" She rambled over her words and Jon felt a sense of betrayal. Not from her but from the men that he was supposed to place his trust in.

"And with the fact that you've abdicated from the throne, and then to bring that dragon q- I mean, Queen Daenerys," It warmed Jon, despite the hint of criticism in her voice and that even though they were in private, Sansa was still courteous. "Here… I… What I am trying to say is, is that I am scared for you."

"I am fucked, basically." Jon smiled grimly to her but she did not find his reply to be satisfactory, looking away to the fire. She brought her fingers to her lips and became deep in thought, clearly thinking over their possibilities and the probability for a positive outcome; trying to muster up a plan. Jon tried to do the same, he wanted to be pragmatic in this situation but found that his mind kept going back to the statue, in the crypts, of the woman who he knows could call his mother. He had visited her many times throughout his life but did not feel a deep sense of connection to her. Was that about to change?

"The only way I can see this ending the way we want it to is that you cut your ties to the Targaryens and that I naturalise you as a Stark," Sansa spoke after a long, heavy silence. Jon found her option to be outrageous and unacceptable. He knew that it would please his people for now but it would not please them when the war finally arrived at their doorstep.

"You know I cannot do that. I have no choice." He muttered back and was surprised to be met with her anger.

"That's what men always say when honour calls." She spat back at him, her eyes filled with an amalgamation of different emotions. He couldn't tell what she was trying to tell him. He was frustrated that she would suggest that it was his pride and honour that was driving his motivations, surely she would know him better by now?

"And what exactly would you have me do? Allow us all to be brutally murdered one by one until we all were to join the Army of the Dead? Sometimes you have to make friends with those you could become your enemies. Surely you know that better than anyone!" He snapped back at her. She stood from her seat, walking away from him, toward her vanity, trying to compose herself. He felt sorry for talking to her in that tone but could not allow her to speak to him thus.

"Well, if you will not do as I have suggested and you will not try to claim the Iron Throne for yourself… Do you really wish to say that you want to do as they have suggested?…" She whispered, her back still facing him. He could see the tension she was carrying but felt confused by what she meant.

"What are you talking-"

"I will not allow myself to be sold off to the highest bidder," She whipped around to face him, tears were in her eyes, her hands clutch against her stomach. "Never again. No one has the right to use my family’s name and titles. I will not allow myself to be used for the betterment of someone else's status and claim to my home! I will not! I will not!" He arose and went to her as she became frantic. She was starting to become very emotional, he had never seen her that way before. It saddened him deeply, causing him to want to comfort her, to hold her in his arms as hurt together, instead of at a distance.

"I'm trying to use you! I never suggested those things, they did! I do not care for any of that-"

"How can you not care?!" She shouted back at him, her tears sliding down her face. She had become flushed in her anger, unable to see his reasoning, unwilling to hear him out.

"What I mean is-" He tried to explain himself but she was quick to interrupt him, cutting his sentences off before they had fully formed.

"I will never allow myself to be married off again! Not as long as the person in question wants to marry me for my title." She exhaled, "That includes you." This hurt him but he did not know exactly why. He couldn't understand why she thought of him in this way, couldn't she understand that he did not want this? He did not want to force her. He did not want her hand unless she gave it to him willingly. This realisation made his fingers tingle and his heart race. He had never thought of that before, he had not considered a future in which they would marry.

"Sansa…" He approached her, wanting to comfort her. But she stepped away from him, not allowing him to gain access to her personal space. She raises her head to him, tears still upon her skin, her eyes had glossed over but there were still remnants of her pain.

"I know that the only reason that I have been married is that Rob is dead and I'm the oldest daughter to my father." She spoke with her emotion deep in her voice. "I am the key to the North, as I have been told by so many people. And that… No one has ever loved me." This broke Jon's heart, he had never quite realised how her position as a first-born Lady had quite affected her. She was destined to be married for political purposes, for the betterment for the family name, not for personal wants. Arya did not know of the same amount of pressure, for she was a second-born daughter. It was not quite the same destiny that Sansa faced.

"I know that it is a Lady's prerogative to secure the future to her home, to ensure that the power of that name lives on. The name can no longer live on through Rob’s child, so I know it is my duty to put my family first. But I have been the pawn of others and have been married twice already. I know what it is like to be in a loveless marriage, I don't want that for myself." She paused and looked at him with regret in her eyes, she went to hold his hand but stopped herself.

"I wouldn't want that for you."

She believed that he did not have feelings for her. She believed of herself as unimportant within his personal life. Jon had no clue of how she could suggest such a thing. She walked away from him, both feeling fragile and rejected, so he reached out and held her to him. To feel her so close to him was unbearable, to hold her fragile body was enough to send him chills. He felt so much pain, unlike anything he had experienced before. His situation was unique. 

He just needed her at that moment, he needed someone close to him and knew that she was the right person. How could he possibly continue a complicated courtship with another woman- a woman who was now a family member to him- whilst trying to arrange some sort of political engagement to another? He was divided, torn between what seemed to be right and what he wanted. But he neither knew which was the best thing to do.

Sansa blinked and a few more tears landed on her checks. She was very close to him now, closer than what was proper. He still held onto her, not wanting to let her go, in fear that she might be lost to him forever if he were to. She broadens her chest and with great pain in her eyes, she finally spoke, "I cannot allow you to take my hand if all you want from me is my title."

"I… I… I want…" He spoke without thinking, almost saying words that he did not know if he truly meant. They studied each other's faces, begging the other to take action. Testing the other for signs of fakery but Jon could not fake what he was feeling in that moment. 

It disgusted him that he wanted to close the gap between them. She had been a sister to him, she had been a… something to him. Now she was his cousin. He knew it was far too much to ask her to be his wife. It was selfish to put all of his options onto her, all of his hopes of peace and safety. He wanted to prove to her that he was a man that was just, kind, and proper. He didn't want to, nor did he plan, to use her for his own gain. He just wanted to belong to somewhere, to someone. He feared that he might not gain that sense of reassurance for a very long time, if ever.

She went to move toward him but he pulled away before she made a mistake. He knew that she would regret it as soon as she found out that he was involved with another. That he has given himself to another, that he was currently bedding another. He couldn't allow her to kiss him, as he knew once she did, he would not want her to stop. It was far more indecent, improper; he would never allow himself to be so dishonest to her. She was like him, she was his blood, one of his kin. It sickened him to think of her in a different light, in any other light that wasn't platonic.

"I must go." He whispered, his breath hot against her face. She looked disappointed that he suggested leaving. She had a piercing look in her eyes; eyes that wanted more than she was willing to admit. He held onto her tightly, pressing her body hot against his. But he left, feeling most lost than ever, more out of place.

He felt her a broken man, trying to not to indulge in his troublesome thoughts. All of him pleaded to go back to her and set things straight or to give in to his urges. But his decency would never allow him to dishonour her like that. 

It would ruin her chances of happiness if there were to engage in a relationship of carnal activities. Gossip would rein from every hall. Lips would chatter of the Lady of Winterfell whoring herself to her brother, her paramour, her king. No common man or lord would care for the details. No one would care that she was his cousin, and because of this, the encounters would be legitimate, because of this. Any marriage between them would be legitimate. But it was far too messy for him to handle. He had too much to process and use her as some sort of tension reliever would be an ignominy. She was better than that.

He felt an abominable and shameful pressure within his breeches. He walked swiftly to his chambers, to relieve himself with his hand and to clean himself from all of this ungodly feeling. He knew that the heart tree would not bring him answers, guaranteed to bring solace and a clear mind. His feelings were not fickle and were as deeply rooted into him, as the roots of the heart tree were into the ground that he walked on. The North will restore the strength that was drained from him, he will have the strength that he needed to continue. As he was now, as he was once before, with his pack.


	3. Daenerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys was lead through dark passageways into the snowy courtyards that were quietly glistening with twinkling ice, the sound of abrupt, roaring laughter could be heard in the distance and the young queen’s breath was caught in her throat due to the alarming sharpness of the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you're really against any Jon/Dany stuff, be warned there is some exploration of their relationship. It is told from Dany's POV. So if you don't like it, maybe just skip it. 
> 
> This is definitely is a mature chapter. 
> 
> (I struggled writing this chapter from Dany's POV, as she isn't my favourite character but I felt it was important to conclude her thoughts and POV)

"Did you notice the way that they embraced?" 

Daenerys had been pondering over this question since she had entered her new temporary quarters. They were not particularly grand, nor welcoming, but instead, quite dark with thick stone walls and furs on the stone floor. The room in question was quite small with just a bed and a seating area, beside a fireplace. Her lady-in-waiting, Missandei, had access to a much smaller privy chamber. The knowledge of Missandei's close proximity comforted Daenerys greatly, as it gave her the feeling that she was not alone in this very strange place. 

Missandei was busying herself with washing Daenerys' body and braiding her long, thick white hair into an intricate and complex style, accompanied by jewels, over the side of the wooden bathing tub. The steam was filling the room with the aroma of the Essos flowers that Daenerys had brought with her to Winterfell. The flowers gave her skin a scent unlike anyone else's in the North, it was kind to her skin; it made her feel different in comparison to anyone else.

The sunlight had soon faded after midday. Daenerys had taken the time to make herself acquainted with her solar, whilst the members of her party had unpacked her possessions into their new, but temporary, homes. Her chamber was now filled with candles and a roaring fire, which she found particularly enticing. The crackling and spitting flames tempted her to extend her hand, allowing them to engulf her but not to leave a mark upon her skin. 

"Whom do you speak, your grace?" Missandei ran her finger through Daenerys' hair, massaging her scalp, causing the queen to close her eyes in appreciation of this comforting touch. 

"Jon and his sister, the Lady Sansa. They were embracing for much longer than anyone else. The way that he looked into her eyes-"

"I would not waste your time worrying over such matters. Lord Snow is loyal to you, my Queen. He has pledged his House to yours, proclaiming you as his monarch. It is you that he stares at longingly, not his half-sister..." She paused for a moment, Daenerys wanted to turn around to see her face, to see why she hesitates, "it is somewhat... rude... to suggest just things-"

"I do not mean that they are- oh no, that would be... wrong. Very wrong." Daenerys splashed her face with the warm water, trying to empty her thoughts of any flirtatious affections between her Jon and his half-sister, the Lady of Winterfell. 

"But I still cannot help but wonder, " she gave a long and heavy sigh, Missandei placed her hand onto Daenerys' shoulder, "he hasn't been as close with me since we arrived at Widow's Wail-"

"Watch. Widow's Watch."

"Yes, Watch. I meant to say that."

"Jon has not been the same with me since we arrived at Widow's Watch. When we first laid together, I could tell that he was nervous, particularly frantic," Daenerys laughed at the memory, causing Missandei to smile, "It was glorious, unlike any other man I have gone to bed with. He's not quite as strong as Drogo was, nor as knowledgable upon the subject as Daario. But... there's something in the way that he held me. It made me feel entirely different than the other men did. He made me believe that there was no one else he would rather be with. But now..." 

A deep frown came across her beautiful face, she bowed her head in worry, her brow knotted in shame. She has not felt this way about a man since her late husband Drogo, and in some aspects, ever. 

Jon Snow was a man of her motherland; her true home. He spoke the common tongue and was brilliantly brave and talented in the dance of warfare. He was a true leader, clearly beloved and respected by his people, something that secretly made Daenerys feel envious. Yes, he was quite short and had very pale skin. But his eyes were kind and his curly hair made this brooding expression seem soft. His physique was also to her liking, as he was toned and muscular from years of battles. He was definitely handsome and his deep scarring did not take away from his looks, but rather, added to them. 

He made her feel admired and special. He encourages her when she is doubtful and advices her when she is unsure. Daenerys had been searching for a man that was her equal since she left Meeren. A man of her liking; a man of the same nature. She believes that she has found it within Jon Snow. Yes, he was bastard-born. But she knew that after they were victorious from his war, once they had defeated the threat to the North together, she could naturalise him as a Stark. Perhaps then, he would smile at her the way she smiled at his half-sister. 

"He has started visiting my bed less and less. If he does come to visit me in at night, it is not for long. Sometimes... he does not even take the caution to fully remove my clothing. We barely spoke on the way here," Missandei paused her actions, giving Daenerys a worried look.

"He mainly just stared down at the parchment letters that Lady Sansa had sent to him. We did kiss but when I tried to lead it to a place of true intimacy, he pushed me away." It saddened her to admit this out loud. 

Even though Jon Snow had given himself to her many times, bringing her nights to a lustful end, he did not seem to be immune to her beauty. She had started trying to redirect his attention to her face during their intercourse by riding him, taking demand of the situation. Hoping that he would find pleasure from the sight of her ample bosom, toned waist, and how she bites her lower lip as she impales herself onto him. 

But what seems to happen is that she'll rut and fuck him until she has reached her spiralling orgasm, then he would demand that she gets off from his cock as he reached his peak. She would lick up his bastard seed as a sign of devotion, another desperate attempt to gain his attention. 

But her efforts did not seem to be working. 

"Lord Snow is probably preoccupied with the task at hand. You must remember that his home is at risk, everyone he has ever known and cares for is also at risk. He's under great pressure. I heard from some of the Masters of Astapor that when men have a lot of worries on their mind, they cannot perform the bedroom duties and sometimes... their penis... will not even become... erect." Missandei flushed and Daenerys turned to face her closest friend in surprise. 

"Surely not! I have never encountered such a thing!" She exclaimed in deep shock. 

The two women laughed together, causing the tension to evaporate into the steamy air but Daenerys' worries still remained, which she made sure to tuck away to the back of her mind. 

Missandei helped her queen from the bathtub and wrapped her into a thick bathing gown, concealing Daenerys' naked body. The former-slave attended to her monarch's needs, applying scented oils to her body and removing unwanted silvery body hair from the other woman's legs, arms, and pubic region. Daenerys trusted her steady hand as she applied the oils and cut the hair away with a sharp knife, she knew that she wouldn't mutilate her. 

Once the queen's body was hairless, Missandei splashed the skin with warm water and wiped away the unwanted hairs. She then applied more scented oils to shut the open pores, giving the skin a pleasant smell. Daenerys stood so that Missandei was able to dress her for that evening's feast. The two women were not conversant to the Westerosi evening attires, nor their customs. Was it appropriate to wear the hair in a braided, half-up-half-down fashion? Should one wear black to an evening's formal meal? Does one wear gloves if they are cold? 

Daenerys stepped into a white shift that was embroidered with dragons that covered the breasts. She had started wearing such a piece of clothing since arriving in Westeros. She was aware that other women wore it to protect their clothing as well as their skin from the harsher textiles. She had found it to be useful as a protective layer against the uncomfortable wool and cotton textures. She stepped her feet into a black stocking made of silk, one for each leg to keep the skin warm and free from frostbite. Before she put on her fur-lined black winter boots, she secured the stockings in place with ribbon, making sure that they were tight to her thigh. Daenerys did not see how they were relevant for her to wear, as she much preferred to wear a man's tailored breeches but she wore them anyway. 

Lord Tyrion had gifted Daenerys with a piece of clothing called a stays, which was apparently popular amongst the noblewoman of Westeros. It was his attempt to customise Daenerys to the Westerosi way of living. She did not want to wear such a piece of clothing but Missandei had convinced her to try it on. Daenerys did not know how this could be popular, as it was unbearably uncomfortable, causing her breathing to be restricted. 

Missandei fumbled for quite a while before she understood exactly how to properly tie up the stays so that it was secure. Daenerys looked at herself in her full-length mirror and noticed how this garment made her stand taller, her waist was now small and her breasts higher up her chest. She did not know if it was worth the effort or discomfort. 

"It would seem the Westerosi women punish themselves by restricting their breathing." Daenerys gasped, clutching onto her chest. 

Now that her white stays were firmly in place, Missandei dressed Daenerys in a floor-length thick quilted linen black petticoat that was tied around her waist. Apparently, women wore it as an extra layer of warmth during the winter. On top of this layer, Daenerys pushed her arms through the sleeves of her garment. A thick black linen dress that was secured to the side with buckles, the shoulders were exaggerated and embroidered with sparkling gems in the shapes of two red and gold dragons. The dress was much heavier than she was used to and tailored in to complement her waist. The cuffs of her sleeves drooped low and were lined with fur. The neckline was high to protect her neck from any gusts of cold wind. The whole dress was textured like the scales of a dragon, which Daenerys ran her hands down and wondered where her own lizard-children were. 

She did not wear any jewels apart from a ring on her right hand and her deep red, almost purple, drapery, which was attached to her dress by the silver twisted chain, allowing the material to rest over her left shoulder. She wore it to present her status, her importance, her wealth, and her difference from other women. The two women worked together to adjust the new garment into place, making sure it was comfortable. 

Daenerys was adjusting her hair when there was a knock on her chamber door. She nodded for Missandei to go answer it and saw on the other side waiting in the doorway was her Lord Hand, Tyrion Lannister, and her advisors Lord Varys and Ser Jorah Mormont. They bowed to their queen as they entered the room, standing awkwardly nearby the bathtub. Daenerys sat with great difficulty but did not give instruction for the men to follow suit, so they waited for her to speak. 

"What is it I can do for you?" 

"My Queen, we wanted to come to you before the feast to see if there were any enquiries you may have." Lord Varys was quick to speak. He stepped toward Daenerys, gesturing flamboyantly with his hands. 

"Oh? Like what?" Daenerys questioned, a smile creeping onto her lips as she found the man's actions rather amusing. 

"Perhaps there is a house that you are not entirely sure about. Or perhaps, you wanted some information about the Stark family." Her Lord Hand spoke to her with an intense look but his voice was quite relaxed in his curiosity. 

The silver-haired queen turned quickly to her closest confidant, Missandei, before turning back pretending to question her query nonchalantly, "What do you know of the Lady of Winterfell?" The three men became awkward, turning to each other with their mouth agape. Lord Tyrion bowed his head with a dark expression upon his face, it seemed clear that there was something he had kept from his queen. 

"Well..." He finally spoke, "I first met Lady Sansa and her family, here, in Winterfell. Many years ago. It was when she was just a child, the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark. Her father was appointed as Lord Hand of King Robert Baratheon, as they were bosom friends, particularly raised as brothers." 

This news made Daenerys straighten her back, she was not aware that the father of her allies was a close friend of the man that had murdered her brother, he has also brought the end of her family’s reign, and on multiple occasions had tried to end her life. 

"So, Lord Stark came down to King's Landing with his two daughters. Sansa was betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon, under the King's orders and eventually, would be queen when the time came. But... poor Eddard Stark made some... unfortunate mistakes during his time as Lord Hand and was eventually betrayed. Many things happened but in the end, he was labelled as a traitor for wanting to reveal the truth behind Joffrey's parentage. Joffrey had gone against all of his advisor's judgements, and Sansa's pleas, and beheaded Lord Stark in front of a large crowd, with Sansa present." Missandei gasped, quickly bringing a hand to her mouth. 

"Quite." Lord Tyrion gave her a sad and very small, empty smile. 

"I was not there for this event, I would never have allowed that to have happened. After that, Cersei lost any little control she had over him and he began to make Sansa's life treacherous. Sansa's eldest brother, Robb, declared war against the throne and was marching south with his army. Any time he was successful in battle, Joffrey would publicly punish Sansa as retribute."

"Oh yes, the poor thing was terribly treated by that awful boy," Lord Varys shook his head in agreement. "The day that he had her beaten and practically stripped naked in front of the court... I knew from then, something had to be done for her and the realm's protection." 

"What did you do?" Missandei asked him. 

"I admit that I did not do my best to protect the Stark girl, as I did not value her more than as merely a spectator of this perilous world. But I did try to arrange her some protection against the Lannisters. I arranged for the girl to be shipped away to the safety of Highgarden, to be married to a kind and trustworthy Tyrell. You see, Sansa had been discarded by Joffrey for the rather dangerous but beautiful, Margaery Tyrell, and I thought it would be a splendid idea that Sansa should marry her brother. But with the aid of Littlefinger, Tywin Lannister- " Lord Varys stopped abruptly, giving Lord Tyrion a very dark and meaning look. 

"But... then... my father quite brilliantly," Tyrion stated with sarcasm, "put an end to this plan. He then decided that it should be I that married the Stark girl. It was one of his more cruel ideas." Daenerys felt a spark of fury raged through her, she stared at her Lord Hand in disbelief. 

"You were married to Sansa Stark? Did you not think that this was something you should have told me?" She asked through a clenched jaw. 

Tryion stepped toward her, his eyes filled with pain. He went to take her hand but his queen would not permit him to touch her. The anger inside of her would not allow her to have any sympathy for him. Jorah Mormont went to her side, gaining eye contact with Daenerys. 

He looked sincere when he proclaimed, "Khaleesi, do not let issues of the past burden you. It is very common for great houses to be joined through marriage.”

“Oh yes, Tyrion did not have wanted the match,” Varys interrupted, his voice very clear and powerful. Daenerys stared at Tyrion, a look of disgust on her face, “it was purely to keep a Stark in King's Landing. Especially after the murder of her mother and elder brother, which was orchestrated by Tywin Lannister, Sansa had become the oldest surviving child of the Stark family. Tywin Lannister would have rather keep her in his pocket than her to be shipped away to a place where he couldn't control her." 

Despite Varys’ explanation, Daenerys’ her manner was still cold and tone accusatory. "So, how is it that Sansa Stark went from being your wife in King's Landing to becoming the Lady of Winterfell?" 

"It is as I have already told you... It was because of the murder of Joffrey at his wedding. For which, I was accused of," Tyrion bowed his head once more, his expression riddled with deep sadness, his fist clenched. Daenerys soften to him, knowing that this event had caused her Lord Hand many hardships and was the event that led him to her.

"Sansa was also framed for this crime. But she was smuggled out of the Captial, I believe by Lord Petyr Baelish, never to be seen in King's Landing again. I still do not know the true extent was of her involvement." Tyrion raised his head, giving Daenerys a rather weak attempt of a smile. His sadness and anger were bubbling through him, after all this time, he still did not have true closure from that event. 

"She was then under the manipulations of Littlefinger. He is the most dangerous man that I ever have known, he might greet you with a warm smile but do not be fooled, he is a man that only serves himself. He will not rest until he is sitting upon the Iron Throne and I am sure that he plans on using Sansa Stark as his way to get there." Lord Varys did not falter in his warning, his manner was very serious but Daenerys could not place a face to this name. She did not know much of this "Littlefinger". 

"I do not believe that I have met this dangerous man. Why is he not here?" Daenerys' question caused Varys' expression to become perplexed but still, quite cautious. 

"Last I had heard, he was here in Winterfell. But he does not seem to be here anymore. I will be sure to inquire about his whereabouts as I would very much like to speak with him." 

"But this still does not answer my question of how Sansa Stark became Lady of Winterfell." Daenerys was starting to be frustrated with this long and rather complicated tale of Sansa Stark's life. She had not expected the woman she had met earlier that day to be quite so acquainted with the different houses of Westeros.

"After the murder of King Robb Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark, Tywin Lannister awarded Roose Bolton as Warden of North. I am told that Bolton was the one that actually stuck the dagger through poor Robb Stark's heart. During this time, Little Finger had taken Sansa under the protection of her aunt, Lysa Arryn, the Lady of the Eyrie. Who was... how can I put this delicately? A rather sick woman. From what I have heard, when Sansa Stark and Littlefinger went up that mountain, her aunt was very much alive but when they came back down again... Lysa Arryn was dead." Lord Varys gave Daenerys a long meaningful look. 

"This was all before Littlefinger made a rather awful mistake... he decided to sell poor Sansa Stark to the Boltons." 

"What do you mean?" Daenerys and Missandei asked together.

"She was married off to Roose Bolton's bastard firstborn son, Ramsey." Tyrion and Jorah both turned their attention to Lord Varys. Everyone in the room had become intense and engrossed in his tale. 

"What do you know this marriage?" Tyrion asked quickly.

"From what I have heard, the boy was a monster. The Boltons are known for their brutal treatment of their foes. But Ramsey was very fond of practising his father's House's old tradition of flaying his victims-"

"I'm sorry but what is flaying?" Missandei interrupted. 

"It is when an individual will skin their victim, usually once they have died. But Ramsey much preferred to flay them when they were still... alive. Ramsey Bolton was rather good at keeping his victim's alive until they were bare. Either that or he would feed his victims to his hounds... once again, whilst they were still alive." Jorah Mormont covered his face with his hands, he seemed shocked by this information. Tyrion did not seem as if he could stand it. Daenerys felt a cold shiver run down her spine, all blood had left her hands, leaving her feeling cold. 

"She was married to this man?" This was all she could manage to say.

"Unfortunately, yes. His cruelty was extended to his wife. Apparently, her screams could be heard throughout the passageways of Winterfell." Missandei gasped once more, Tyrion clenched his fists and looked as if he was trying to stop the tears from flowing. Daenerys' face flickered with an expression of disgust, she did not appreciate the way that her advisor discussed the intimate details of Lady Stark's marriage. She readjusted her uncomfortable body, trying to rid memories of her own traumas. 

"How that poor girl survived, I do not know. It was lucky was she was able to escape and go to the only family available to her- her bastard brother, Jon Snow." 

Daenerys now finally understood their connection. They were forced back into each other's lives during a time of trauma. With what Jon had experienced as the Lord Commander and what Sansa Stark had endured in her own home, they were clearly bonded through their hardships. Daenerys did still feel some small amount of jealousy, as she knew that she did not have this level of emotional connection with Jon. Even though, he was her current lover. 

"Where are the Boltons now?" Asked Missandei.

"All dead. Ramsey murdered his father, his father's wife and their newborn son. Jon Snow and Sansa rallied any remaining loyal Northern household to get Winterfell back. Ramsey had murdered the youngest stark child, Rickon, upon the battlefield. It was sure that the battle would be lost to the Bolton army when the men from the Eyrie had ridden in to aid them. They had come under Sansa's request." This impressed Daenerys. She couldn't quite put her finger on why but she did always prefer it when women took charge, exhibiting their leadership skills and their adroit prowess. 

There was a loud knock on the door, surprising everyone in the room. Jorah Mormont opened the door to a guardsman on the other side, who instructed them that the feast was about to take place. The small group arose from their comfortable positions, their collective bubble of security had been burst. They were now requested to enter into a world of the unknown. 

Jorah approached Daenerys with a smile and offered his arm, which she gladly took. They were ready to walk out of the solar down to the Great Hall when Tyrion Lannister interrupted the procession. 

"How did this Ramsey Bolton die?" He asked loudly, his body turned to Lord Varys but his eyes upon Daenerys. 

"The whispers that I have heard is that Sansa Stark had Ramsey captured after Jon Snow had nearly beaten him to death." He paused and gave his queen a rather satisfied and impressed smirk. 

"She then proceeded to feed him to his hounds... whilst he was still alive." 

-

Daenerys was lead through dark passageways into the snowy courtyards that were quietly glistening with twinkling ice, the sound of abrupt, roaring laughter could be heard in the distance and the young queen’s breath was caught in her throat due to the alarming sharpness of the cold. Upon their processions toward the warmth and uncertainty of the Great Hall, the queen expected the Warden of the North, Jon Snow, to at least make an appearance; to enter into the doors together, arm in arm, a united front that would cause the noblemen to stop their chatter and pay attention. But alas, as Daenerys entered into the Great Hall, stomping the snow off her boots, she was engulfed into the warming sensation of noise and fragrances. 

The hall was larger than she had expected, the ceiling awfully tall with dark wooden beams to support the roof, chandeliers of candles hanging down to cast the room into the light. The stone walls were decorated with the cotton banners of the houses that were in attendance that evening. Long tables with benches on either side filled the room with food, well organised, upon them and winter flowers in between the plates of cooked meat and vegetables. In the corner, on her right, was a small band of musicians playing a tune that Daenerys had not heard before beneath a large tapestry. 

On the other side of the hall was a table placed upon a platform, standing higher than the rest. Seven wooden chairs accompanied the table but they were empty. Daenerys’ eyes searched the room in hopes of finding Jon and she finally found him with a large group of men, laughing loudly with a cup of ale in his hand. One of the men was dressed in all black with a high brow and pointed nose, he stood close to Jon and spoke to him excitedly. 

The youngest Stark child was in his wheelchair, dressed in fine clothes, with his sister, Ayra, and numerous other guests. He did not partake in their conversation, nor did he drink from his goblet, instead, he watched Daenerys and her party waiting awkwardly by the door. Daenerys was starting to feel uncomfortable and very impatient, this was not what she had envisaged being presented to the Northern court. 

Sansa Stark appeared from a side door with her sworn sword beside her. She looked beautiful, still in the same dress that she wore earlier but her hair was worn in a far more feminine fashion with flowers decorating her plaits. She scanned the room and spotted Daenerys very quickly, she gave a small uninterested smile before walking to her half-brother, Jon. She gained his and the other men’s attention, they bowed to her and she placed a hand on Jon’s arm, whispering something in his ear. He immediately looked to Daenerys, his smile leaving his lips and a cloud of seriousness seemed to descend upon him. 

The young queen raised her eyebrows to him, feeling rather disappointed by how long she had been forced to wait for him. As he made his way through the crowd, she heard Tyrion mutter something under his breath. 

“Your grace, my apologies to be keeping you waiting,” he paused and gave a smile filled with worry, hoping that would be enough to make amends to her bruised ego but she did not respond, “ah, you look very nice this evening.” Daenerys knew that his attempt of flattery did not come to him naturally and tried to not roll her eyes. Instead, she looked to Missandei who smiled at her, knowingly. 

“I think it best that you lead the way.” 

Jon offered his arm, of which she took, and together, they lead the rest of her advisors through the crowd. Daenerys tried to hide her nerves as the Northerners looked at her disapprovingly, already quite rosy from the drink. She looked up at the Head Table and saw that the rest of the Starks were already awaiting her, her expression intricate codes that she could not decipher. 

“My lords and ladies,” Jon’s voice bellowed throughout the hall, gaining everyone’s silence, “I introduce to you, my honoured guests, Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, her Lord Hand, Lord Tyrion Lannister and her most noble advisors, Lord Varys, the lady Missandei, and Ser Jorah Mormont. They have travelled far from their Southern isles and put aside their Southern war to bring us their aid in our time of need and help us with the fight for the living. I welcome you.” There was a begrudging clap from the guests, some more enthusiastic than others but overall, it did not sound like a warm welcome. 

Daenerys’ smile was beguiling but false, she hoped that no one could see through her fake courtesy. Ser Davos handed Jon a large clay bowl which had chunks of dark brown bread and flakes of white salt. 

“So, my guests, I welcome you to my halls and offer you my hospitality at my table. I extend the protection of the Old Gods and hope that your time here is prosperous.” Daenerys gave Jon a confused look as he dipped the bread into the salt and ate it before passing it on to his sister, Sansa, who also did the same. 

The plate was passed on until it finally reached Daenerys, who took it and followed the actions of her party. She did not really know why she was doing this and the food tasted truly awful but it seemed to be necessary. Once she had swallowed the clump of dough, trying not to grimace whilst doing so, her Lord Hand nodded his head at her. It would seem that she needed to respond. 

“Thank you, my Lord. I hope to be of service for the Northern Kingdom during this difficult time, ensuring the best of my abilities that the safety of all of those within this great kingdom is protected.” She proclaimed loudly, hoping to gain respect from those who looked down at her. 

Jon smiled at her, offering his hand and taking her to her seat at the Head Table. She sat on his right side, which in Essos courts could be deemed as an insult as it is the position for the fan-bearer. But from what Daenerys could remember of her education, one is placed next the liege lord’s or king’s right is a symbol of the right hand of the gods. It is a great honour. She is the honoured guest but this did not do much to succumb her anxieties when she saw the Lady of Winterfell sit next to Jon, on his left-hand side, the wife’s side. 

Is she to be humiliated once again?

They continued on with the feast, her and Jon discussing the different feasts that Winterfell has been host to and that this was the first one that Jon had ever attended. She did not eat much of the food, finding solace in the vinegary wine, resulting in her spending most of her time watching the guests talk loudly with their allies and old friends. She truly felt like an outsider. 

Sansa left the table and went amongst the crowd, conversing easily with the different houses. They responded so well to her, laughing loudly at her comments, smiling widely and listening to every word she had to say. There were hundreds of guests there, the majority of them were noblemen and noblewomen from the different Northern households, all of which were the Stark’s bannermen. They all seem to know Sansa Stark and all had something to say to her. It made Daenerys feel quite unneeded. She was not comfortable upon this stage, where it was clear that she was not the main act. 

After a while, she decided to leave Jon and go sit at one of the other tables nearby, accompanying Missandei. Her advisor sat with Ser Jorah, making small conversation and their welcoming smiles was much needed. She’d rather have their company than the Starks and the encroaching eyes of the guests. She felt much more comfortable beside her friends that she did up there and the three of them discussed the situation quietly, under their breaths. 

The Great Hall of Winterfell was glowing with the candlelight. The northern and southern lords and ladies were talking loudly to one another, drinking the wine and ale to help ease conversations. The lively music played by the musicians, in the corner of the hall, boomed the room into life. The atmosphere was still uneasy but had improved since their first arrival at Winterfell. The banquet was not the finest she had ever seen, nor did the room quite hold the same amount of splendour that she was used to. 

The air in the room seemed to become thicker and thicker with conversation. Daenerys sat by her two dearest friends and confidants, Jorah Mormont and Missandei. Jorah was educating them both of each house and gave a brief history. Daenerys tried to listen but found herself not particularly interested in the history lesson.

She took a large sip of her wine and tried not to grimace at the bitter taste, now starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. She looked up and found one of the Northern lords staring at her with a look of utmost distaste upon his face. Daenerys tried to smile at him but found herself unable to. Until now, She had not quite realised the hatred that was felt for her family. She had not known that the murder of her father and family had been a wanted victory that was celebrated by many. This made her feel sick to her stomach. 

Jorah continued to talk lowly in her ear, occasionally Daenerys would nod and smile at him politely. But she did not pay him any mind as she watched Tyrion talk to Lady Sansa Stark. She found the way they interacted rather odd, despite their arranged marriage, they seem to converse as if they were rather close acquaintances, at one time. Well, it went beyond the knowledge of a stranger from opposing houses but rather, they seemed familiar with one another and quite friendly. 

As Tyrion walked away from the table, he had a soft smile upon his face. Daenerys watched him, her eyebrows knitted together and body tense. She had not yet forgiven him for his lack of disclosure as it was a breach of her confidence. This was something that she did not take lightly and she would forget it easily. Tyrion returned to his seat at the end of the table and engaged in a quiet conversation with Varys. Daenerys watched them with the eyes of a hawk, analysing their every move to try to decipher what they were discussing. She was losing her trust in the two men and was very wary of their private conversations, which she feared was not in her best interest. 

The room had continued to get louder and louder, the sound of an argument was tingling in the air. Daenerys was not quite aware of it until she heard a loud slam. Everything and everyone in the hall became still, all eyes were searching for the disruption. Daenerys looked up towards the Stark family and saw that Jon Snow had his fist on the table, his body was hunched over. He was leaning over his elder half-sister with an expression of fury on his face. A look that Daenerys had not yet seen. Lady Sansa glared back up at him, still in her seat, her eyes ablaze with disbelief and anger. The other two Stark children were sat to Lady Sansa’s left, the youngest daughter, Ayra, stared at her half-brother with shock. Whilst the youngest son, Brandon, looked out throughout the crowd in front of them, observing their guests. 

Jon did not move once everyone had become still. He kept his stance, staring down at Sansa, clearly unaware of the attention that was now on him. Lady Sansa then did something quite unusual, instead of returning back to her meal or ignoring her half-brother. She instead, started to turn towards him and stood up. She held his glare as she stood from her chair, the two moving together as she rose. She held his gaze for another few seconds, they were standing awfully close to one another. Her expression changed to a quiet fury before she walked away and left the Great Hall by the servant’s door. Jon stood, still staring at where she had left, before returning to his seat, taking large gulps from his goblet. The room slowly came back into life as people continued their conversations, the music returning once again. But now, the room was buzzing with gossip. 

“What do you think that was about?” Daenerys asked Jorah, who was still looking at Jon Snow with an odd expression on his face. Daenerys glanced over at Tyrion and Varys and they too had these strange expressions of their faces, she wished she knew what they were thinking. 

“I do not know,” he answered, still looking at the head table. “I will try to find out what I can.” He went to get up but Daenerys caught his wrist and kept him in his seat, he looked at her waiting for her to speak. Daenerys did not look at him but instead, her eyes were fixated onto Tyrion, intensely analysing his actions and expressions. 

“No, you will not.” She told Jorah, her face riddled with distrust. 

Before Jorah went to ask her what she requested for him to do, she returned her gaze to the head table. Arya Stark was frantically whispering to her half-brother, Jon, on his left, whilst Ser Davos was whispering to him on his right. Jon’s expression was one of sheer frustration, he was clearly angry. Jon’s gaze went onto Daenerys for just a moment, before he looked downward. 

Daenerys went to stand to join him and ask what the matter was. But before she could, he abruptly got up, leaving his advisor and sibling and left the hall through the same door that Lady Sansa had. Daenerys wanted to go follow him and demand what was going on but Jorah grasped her hand. She looked at him, anger starting to rise inside of her.

“Do not follow him. It would be best to seek his audience later when in private. We are already seen as an intrusion to these people, we do not want to cause anymore animosity.” Jorah stated with an unsteady smile on his face.

“He is right.” Missandei nodded to Daenerys, she also looked rather worried.

Daenerys sighed, knowing that they were right. She felt a tightness in her chest that had not seemed to have gone away since she had landed on the Northern shores. There had been a distance between her and Jon that had not gone, even though she had tried to gain his attention to amending it. Despite their nights of physical intimacy, something was not quite right with her Lord Snow. He had given himself to her – his body, his kisses, his seed, and even his kingdom. 

He had shown her devotion and loyalty. But she had a feeling that he was holding back his mind from her, keeping a part of him hidden from her eyes. Since they had arrived at Winterfell, she had started to see parts of his personality that she hadn’t known before. He seemed to be more candid here, more full of emotion. Which Daenerys understood, as it was a time of extreme stress but she felt a sense of betrayal, surely she should be the one that he is most honest with, as she was his lover. 

But this was not the case and it hurt her. 

The musicians engulfed the large room with a fast-paced and uplifting song, Daenerys could feel the beat of the drum but could not hear the words that escaped the singer’s throat. She was ensorceled with the servant door that Jon and Sansa had left through. Her body was tingling with excitement and her heart throbbed with worry. She needed to leave to find Jon, to try to understand what had happened. She gulped down the last of her wine, biding her friends a good night before leaving from the grand doors of the Great Hall. 

The freezing air of the winter’s night counteracted the numbing effect of the wine in her system. She rushed back to her room, wanting the privacy in this moment of humiliation. She came across a guard, who was tall and old, he briefly bowed his head to her as he walked past. 

“Tell Lord Snow that I will be waiting for him in my chambers,” she demanded.

The guard seemed somewhat surprised but quickly nodded, leaving her to be alone once again. Behind the comfort of her chamber’s closed door, she struggled to get herself out of the confines of the stays, she tugged and exclaimed in frustration when the constricting item would not ease up. She decided to cut the strings with a knife, finally being able to breathe freely once she was in her smallclothes and a rather revealing shift. She managed to take her hair out of the complex braids, massaging her sore scalp once it was completely free. She poured herself a cup of the summer wine, sipping on the sweet nectar, the syrupy-like liquid causing her to sigh with relief. 

After what felt like many hours, there was a soft knock at her chamber door. She was quick to open respond, flinging the door open and was pleased to see that Jon was waiting on the other side of the threshold. 

“Good evening, my lady.” He stated as he entered her chamber, analysing the room and glancing at her attire with a surprised expression. 

“Jon,” she smiled, caressing his forearm, encouraging him to sit beside the hearth. He seemed to be distant and closed-off still, this made Daenerys want to shout in frustration as she did not understand why there was a change between them. He did not meet her eye when she sat opposite him, nor did he take up her offer of a goblet of wine. 

The atmosphere was thick between the two, the roaring fire crackled illuminating the room into life, the only solace that could bring the awkward situation any betterment. Daenerys decided to take action, she knew Jon could be somewhat reserved, he did not initiate conversations of the emotional kind. She leant forward and place a warm hand upon his knee, he looked away from the fire and gave her a reluctant smile. 

“Oh, Jon! What is the matter? You’ve not been yourself since we’ve arrived in the North. Please tell me what’s wrong.” She finally exclaimed, snapping out of the confines of her nerves to finally ask what she had been pondering upon. 

“It’s just that…” He sighed, “now that I am finally back the realisation that this war is going to happen. We might fail. We might all die and that... scares me.” 

“Surely, if you enter into this war with the pre-existing notion that you are going to fail, aren’t you more likely to fail?” Jon looked at Daenerys with a odd expression before he smiled at her. This look lifted Daenerys’ spirit unlike any kiss could. He took her hand into his and squeezed. It was a small victory. 

“Are you sure that’s all that is worrying you?” Daenerys tried to seem nonchalant in her questioning, she did not want the man sitting opposite her to realise quite how much she needed to know the answer. 

“I assume you’re asking about what happened at the feast.” Daenerys did not respond, instead, she examined Jon’s scarred hand. 

“It is just a misunderstanding. You see, Sansa and I were never close when we were growing up. She was never outright awful to me although she could be quite cold. So sometimes, I take her wording in the wrong way. It is my own fault.” He stated plainly, smiling at Daenerys. This response did not quite satisfy but she knew that it was somewhat genuine, even though, it was a little rehearsed. 

She watched him carefully, he was gazing at her barely clothed breasts, clearly able to see her erect nipples. For just a second he looked unhappy, coming to a conclusion that he did not seem to like. But quickly, a mischievous smile was on his face but there was no twinkle in his eye. 

“Now, I didn’t get to show you how much I liked that dress.” 

Jon pulled Daenerys onto his lap and captured her lips in a hungry kiss. It happened very quickly, as it often did. Soon his cock was released from his breeches and he was taken her to the bed, ripping her clothes from her. Their carnal activities were quite different that evening, Jon took her from behind, the same way her Drogo would prefer to take her. But Jon seemed desperate as pounded himself into her, grabbing a fistful of her white locks forcing her head back until she was able to see him. He held her there, his hand around her throat and his lips on her forehead. It was wanton, almost uncivilised, almost how a wolf would take his bitch. 

As he held her there, still retaining the same depraved pace causing the sound of their bodies slapping to fill the room, Jon seemed angry as he fucked her. He grunted with a dark expression across his face, she bit her lower lip trying to keep her moans to herself and his cock twitched inside of her. He did not see the grimace and the disgust he was expressing. 

He pushed her body down onto the bed, holding her face into the furs and took her harshly, a growl leaving his throat. The sounds of his passions overwhelmed her; his want for her body and the way he demanded it caused her to become overcome with pleasure. She came with a scream, her body spasming out of control and she knew at that moment, she was undoubtedly and unquestionably his.


	4. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time, in a very long time, Tyrion felt that he needed a strong drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I wrote this chapter first. I have altered it along the way but it was the start of all of this.

Tyrion Lannister walked across the main courtyard of the grand and ancient castle, Winterfell. The ground was dusted in sparkling ice and snow, which crunched underneath his feet as he walked. The mezzanine, that overlooked the courtyard, had numerous castle guards scattered. They were all huddled in thick winter furs and leather, their breaths creating clouds of icy mist that cascaded into the night sky. The torches and lanterns were the only sources of light that evening, as the moon was covered by thick cloud. The snow reflected the warm hues from the light sources, causing the courtyard to shine, it was truly sublime; golden and grandiose.

Winterfell was not what Tyrion had remembered it to be. Since the castle was sacked by the Iron Born with the aid of the Boltons, which resulted in many parts of the castle to be burnt and left in ruin, the castle has undertaken some major repairing and reconstruction. Tyrion did not remember well how the inner courtyard looked, for he did not spend too much time examining it in a sober state. From what he could recall, the treacherous house Bolton was somewhat sloppy with their recreation, as the layout had changed. Despite this, the castle now seemed more inviting, the new wood and freshly washed walls gave the ancient castle a new sense of life. It was reborn.

Much like the Stark family itself.

The castle at night time use to be deadly quiet, the thick stone walls contained much of noise from within the various parts of the castle. So if one were to be within its ground, they will not hear a single thing. But now, there was a distant cry of conversation and laughter that originates from the surrounding grounds of Winterfell, which causes the grounds to feel disturbed. All that Tyrion tried to focus his attention on was the crunching of the snow, the whispers of the guards, the squawking of a murder of crows, and if he listened and concentrated hard enough, he might be able to hear the howling of a dire wolf. But alas, he would be kidding himself if he could say in true honesty that he actually heard these things.

The north was different from the rest of Westeros, there was an impression of darkness to it that did not compare to the darkness he had endured throughout Westeros and Essos. This darkness did not stem from malicious intent or the greed of people but instead, the earth itself. The ground almost vibrated with this tangible energy, with the hint of magic, and a sense of history.

Many did not see this quality in the North, and for many years, neither Tyrion. Like many, he thought it to be a wasteland filled with uneducated, dirty people that told stories to scare children into going to sleep. But now, after all these years, to find out that all the awful and scary stories he was told about Giants, Thanes, Ice Kings, Whitewalkers, and the undead are in fact true and not just true, but in such close proximity to him… Well, it made him feel more scared and small than the high towers of Winterfell and The Wall combined. Winterfell was not a dreary old, rundown dismal castle in the middle of nowhere of importance, so far north that one would have to be either stupid or desperate to go there. It was not that at all. But Tyrion feared that many of the guests that he had travelled with to this grand castle, did not see it in the same way as he did.

He stepped through the large doorway into Winterfell’s dark and cold passages of its inner walls. He was cloaked in thick furs and hard leather, frost lightly coating his heavily bearded and deformed face. His breath was noticeable as he paced with heavy steps, a deep sense of importance in his stride. They had been in Winterfell for days at this point and Tyrion could almost taste the hint of unease and impatience. It was clear that the war council meetings would be taking place soon, meaning that Tyrion would be needed to give advice on any strategy that is suggested. He was a man of great importance, not the type that was a messenger. It was not in his nature to attend to the deeds of another unless it was of great benefit to himself. However, in the quiet walls of Winterfell, he found himself obliging his Queen’s demands as a way to past the time on this, particularly lonesome and overwhelming night.

He climbed the stone stairs, gripping tightly onto the rope (which had been nailed into the wall) for support as each thick, sturdy stone step became icier than the one that past. He found himself nearing a grand wooden door of the Stark’s private quarters. The corridors were dark with only torches to light his way, numerous parts of the walkways were dimly-lit with very little amber flames to help illuminate those that lurked in the corners.

He nodded at guards standing outside Brandon Stark’s door, but they barely acknowledged his presence for they were far too tired to notice the short man passing them. Now, feeling somewhat uncomfortable, Tyrion passed down another passage, through an archway, this one much tighter than the before, coming to a spiralling staircase. Of which he climbed, finally arriving at his destination. The grand engraved oak door that once belonged to the honourable Lord Eddard Stark and his tenacious wife, Lady Catelyn Stark. However, that was a long time ago and now, the chamber was home to their oldest surviving child and daughter, Sansa Stark.

Tyrion was met with a surprise as he approached the door. He was told that Lady Sansa Stark usually had either a castle guard standing on duty outside her chamber at night or her own sworn shield, Lady Brienne of Tarth. A gigantic and rather ugly woman but a fine example of a Knight. However, tonight, there was no one there.

Tyrion raised his small leather-cladded hand to knock onto the chamber door of the woman he once called his wife. But he stopped before his fist met with the door as he could hear frustrated voices from within the room.

“Sansa, you should have told me!” Stated a male voice that Tyrion recognised to belong to Lord Jon Snow, the decorated warrior and former monarch of the Northern Kingdom of Westeros. The Northern Bastard; the man that now holds so much control and power over the largest kingdom in all of Westeros, the North.

Tyrion first met him in the courtyard, many moons ago, a glum child on the cusps of being a man. A bastard that wanted nothing more to be accepted as a Stark and to prove himself as a Man of the Night’s Watch. Tyrion knew him to be intelligent but thought he was very narrow-minded. It made him smile to think of how far he had come.

Tyrion leaned in closer to the door to be able to hear more of what was being said. He could hear Lady Sansa Stark sigh from behind the door in response to Jon’s statement. What sounded like a chair was scraped along the stone floor and creaked when someone sat in it. Tyrion could not tell if they were alone if this was a private discussion, or if there were more of Stark family members or their bannermen were in Lady Stark’s private chamber. They would definitely have many things to discuss due to the upcoming war, the Stark’s newfound alliance with Daenerys Stormborn of the old house, Targaryen. With whom, Tyrion held the title of the Hand of the Queen.

It did seem odd that at this hour of the night that the Lady Sansa would be holding a meeting of political importance in her private chambers. It was not an impossible notion but seemed somewhat unlikely. Perhaps, this was a private conversation between Lord Snow and Lady Stark.

“Jon,” through the door came Sansa’s impatient voice which was thick with temporary spite, “I understand that. But surely, you can understand why I didn’t. It was not something that I could just write in a letter-”

“I have already explained to you why I did that. Why can’t you just understand?!” Jon’s voice had become raised, close to a shout. He could hear footsteps passing the other side of the room, now much closer to the door. This made Tyrion become very uneasy, he knew he shouldn’t be listening. If he were to be caught, he knew that Lady Sansa would not harm him for this breach of privacy but be cannot be sure for Lord Snow, due to his current angered state.

The manner in which these two conserved was somewhat odd to Tyrion. He was of the understanding that they were not notably close during childhood and not been informed of any sort of closeness since their reuniting. He knew Sansa to be an opinionated, intelligent, and foremost, a very sensible young woman. She had been able to amuse and surprise Tyrion with her wit on numerous occasions, during their shared time at the Capital. Yet, now, he found that her composure had changed. She spoke to Lord Snow, her once Liege Lord, with a very familiar tone. If Tyrion were archaic in his thoughts, he would feel that Sansa was speaking above her standing.

However, due to Sansa’s stronger birthright over Winterfell, this made their position very interesting, indeed. They are adults, who once shared the halls in which they now co-command with opposing ideas and strategies but with the same goal. It must be rather hard for the Bastard of Winterfell and the Daughter of Winterfell to define their dynamic, during these difficult times.

“It just hurts when someone is trying to give away your home.” Sansa spat back at him. It was a rather child-like response, a hurtful jab at Jon that was just a part of their bicker that had escalated into a very heated argument.

“You know it wasn’t like that. You know that I’m not trying to do that! But if you still think that, then maybe-”

“Oh, seven hells! I know you are not!” Sansa’s voice had changed from calm to pleading.

“I just wished you had asked me! If you had explained it to me and asked, I would have had felt differently about it!” She paused briefly, “Besides, the reason I did not write to you to tell you about Lord Baelish’s trial was that I was worried. I thought he was reading my correspondents. I feared that he would somehow find out and it was crucial that the trial happened without delay. He was a threat to our family and to the safety of the North, you know it was the right thing to do.”

Sansa seemed to be riddled with emotions, she did not speak of these events with any sort of joy. But instead, she conveyed an almost hidden air of shame in her tone. This must be the reason behind the pair’s altercation at the feast, which was an embarrassing affair sparked by Jon’s anger that he wasn’t informed of Littlefinger’s trial and execution.

“None of that matters right now. I wanted to talk to you about what Bran has found out. When we last spoke about the matter, I was quite abrupt with you. I’m sorry. I still stand by what I said but I want you to know that you will always be a Stark to me and this is your home. Nothing has changed between us!” Another pair of footsteps hurried toward the door, the chair was knocked backwards and clattered with the floor.

Tyrion could deduce that Lady Sansa had stood up to stand with Lord Snow. Tyrion’s eyebrows knitted together, he wondered what Lady Sansa meant when she said, _what Bran has found out_. Tyrion did not have time to ponder because Lord Jon and Lady Sansa continued their heated conversation.

“This changes everything! My whole life I thought one thing and now… everything that I knew… was wrong. This complicates everything!! The North, our alliance with Daenerys, the southern war…” Lord Jon’s voice was thick with emotion. Tyrion could tell that Jon was trying to contain some of his feelings to himself, to stay diplomatic and practical about this topic, as any northern man would. But whatever it was they were discussing was causing the most powerful man in the Northern Kingdom to become lost to his emotions. He sounded vulnerable.

“You know now that if she finds out. If any of them find out, this whole arrangement will be lost. Everything I have done to keep this together will be for nothing. This war will be lost! And we will all die to the Night King and the undead!!” Jon shouted with panic in his voice.

“Oh, I am sure that everything you have done will _not_ be forgotten.” Sansa’s voice sounded just as vulnerable as Jon’s but she was spiteful, almost fearful of Jon’s reply.

“You already know?”

“Only when you confirm it,” She whispered her reply, trying to suppress her emotions.

“I… I spelt with her.” Tyrion knew of whom they were speaking, his Queen, Daenerys. Tyrion already knew of Daenerys’ and Jon’s union that took place on the voyage through the Narrow Sea, northward from Dragonstone to Winterfell. For he had witnessed Jon approaching Daenerys’ quarters. It was a cold night, not unlike this one. Tyrion’s heart pounded as he awaited Sansa’s response to this information, he clenched his fists by his side, his jaw tight.

“Why?” Sansa’s voice barely came through the door for it was shaky and small.

Tyrion wished he could see her stoic expression, her ability to hide her feelings, that face that he once knew so well. He knew there was no emotion present on her features apart from her eyes, which always gave away her true intentions. Despite this, Tyrion did wonder why the two were discussing this with such an emotional strain? It was discussed as if the act itself was a form of betrayal between the two. This made Tyrion feel very uneasy.

“How is it that you know?!”

“Varys. Varys told me after I left the feast. Not that I did not already know of it, the whole of the north is whispering about it now! He came to my chambers and asked to speak with me privately. We had a lot to discuss apparently. He wanted to know everything that has happened to me since I fled the Capital. He particularly wanted to know everything that happened between me and Lord Baelish… and… almost as a thank-you for the information that I decided to share, obviously, I didn’t tell him everything… He told me of a secret that he heard whilst on the boat from Dragonstone between his Queen and _my_ King,” There was heaviness to the way Sansa stated a claim on her King, on her Jon.

“I guess he just wanted to plant the seed to see how I would react. To spread the news before you can, then report back to his _precious,_ ” Sansa spat that word out as if it were venom on her tongue, “queen that she has nothing to worry about. That everything that those southern lords have been whispering about me in the courtyard isn’t true.” She was starting to raise her voice in anger. This was something foreign to Tyrion, he had never heard Lady Sansa Stark ever speak poorly of anyone or even speak in a tone that was unpleasant.

Tyrion wondered if Vary was actually acting upon the wishes of their queen, or if he was actually acting under the accordance of his own free will. Tyrion knew that the Master of Whispers wanted nothing more than information; for knowledge was the only power and currency available to him. His friend, _The Spider_ , had been on edge since arriving at Winterfell. He had not taken the death of Lord Petyr Baelish very well and clearly, needed to know how one of the most powerful and deceitful men in all of Westeros was able to be murdered by the Stark children at a trial.

“What have they been saying?” Jon was quick to ignore most of what Sansa had said, he was too focused on her honour.

“That… just… things about my past. They ask each other questions about me and what happened when I was with the Boltons. They don’t trust me and I can tell from the way they look at me with this sense of wariness and false smiles. They forget that I lived in King’s Landing and know exactly what those expressions actually mean. I can tell that they question us-”

“What do you mean _us_?!” Jon exclaimed with fury bellowing in his tone. Tyrion wondered too, _what did she mean?_ Tyrion was not an idiotic man, he had too questioned the pair. Of course, the political ties between the great noble houses were strained, as they always were in times of war. Obviously, putting aside his own personal views of the two, he knew of the gossip that had started.

He could not state that he did not have his own suspicions. From the moment he spoke of Sansa to Jon, he could tell that there was tension within his friend. This tension only grew when Jon, the Warden of North, and Daenerys’ party had been welcomed into Winterfell. It was an odd affair, as many of the Northerners were not happy of Jon’s decision to bend the knee to a Targaryen. Nor were they happy for that said Targaryen was welcomed in their home as if what her father had done was forgotten and forgiven. It was during those first few hours that Tyrion first noticed it. As he watched the two interact, how they displayed their affections, he couldn’t help but see how Jon reacted so differently toward Sansa than he did to his other siblings.

This made Tyrion ponder back to how Jon has acted toward Daenerys during the last few months at Dragonstone. He did not mean to compare Jon’s actions or his reactions, but there was definitely a difference between the two. It was then that Tyrion thought he could see something between the Northern Lord and Lady of Winterfell that was beyond friendly, beyond caring, beyond what was considered as family. It was not normal for two persons, such as themselves, to call one another brother and sister but then to share glances filled with affection and longing. Tyrion had seen that within his own siblings and hoped for these looks were of his imagination, but now, he suspected that perhaps, his suspicions were right. It made Tyrion feel relieved and worried that he had not been the only one to detect this.

“They think that we are too close and that… that… your feelings for the dragon queen-”

“My _feelings_ for Daenerys are not important!” He shouted before composing himself.

“Sansa… I serve the North. I shouldn’t have to tell you that! Surely, you can understand. You told me that the Northern Lords will never trust a Targaryen…” There was a pause between them.

“Despite how I feel about any of it, despite what anyone else thinks about her, we still need her dragons, we need her army. We need as much help as we can get!” There was a hint of betrayal in Jon’s voice. He seemed to be rather desperate for Sansa’s understanding and support. Tyrion knew now that there was more to Jon, the Northern Fool.

“She is not in the position of power that you believe her to be! No, listen to me, her allies are slowly fading, her army does not have the supplies for this weather. She will not win against Cersei for she does not understand the politics of Westerosi courts and warfare. I am not going to lie... I do not agree with everything you have done. I support your decision to fight for the North, But…” Jon deeply sighed, causing Sansa to raise her voice in anger.

“Are you going to still sleep with her? Despite everything you now know!” Sansa’s voice echoed through the door and into the passageway, Tyrion could feel her worry, she asked her question with a very accusatory infliction.

“I… I… Aye.” Jon stated with a tone that Tyrion could not quite put his finger on, there was a sadness to his reply, he sounded frustrated and annoyed, almost as if he was ashamed to admit it. This worried Tyrion for the sake of his Queen and for the sake of the North. The way that they were talking to each other, so frank, so honestly, it was rather incriminating. If anyone else were to hear this conversation and to hear the way that these two were speaking to one another. Tyrion feared Jon was quite right, they would all be lost to what lurked north.

“Have you slept with her since arriving back in Winterfell?” Sansa asked with real torment, fearful of his reply as if she already knew his answer. There was a slow bubbling fury deep within her chest, ready to explode at any moment.

“Yes.”

“How dare you!?” Screamed Sansa, Tyrion stepped backwards in shock but was quick to return to the doorway.

“This is our home! Our family home! How could you do such a thing? How could you disrespect our family like that? Our grandfather! O-ou-our uncle!” Her anger bellowed through the door and into Tyrion heart, her pain was so present that Tyrion could practically see her eyes filling with tears as she screamed.

“I know. Sansa, please, I know. I know what I have done, it was my mistake. Sansa, if you have seen what I have seen, you would understand the fear that I feel-”

“Oh, I’m sure she will be able to soothe your pain,” Sansa cried.

The two continued their conversation with hushed voices that graduated into desperate mumbles. Jon had clearly tried to speak to Sansa in a voice so quiet that it could not penetrate the wooden door. It was a truly private moment between the two; soft cries of pain and pleas of forgiveness. Then, a moment of pure silence that caused Tyrion’s heartbeat to pound in his ears, his breathing uneven. He had never expected to stumble upon a conversation quite like this. He felt for Sansa’s cry but feared for his Queen’s dignity; her romantic as well as political decisions. Daenerys had put her trust into this man and he had just stated that their romantic interactions were a mistake to him. He said it with shame and disgust in his voice, there was no happiness or pride in his tone. He regretted what he had done.

This changes everything.

But soon, the couple from behind the door had started arguing once again. Their calm voices were now back to worried shouts of judgement and begging.

“Jon, if you are not careful, you will lose your army! Then all you will be left with is Daenerys’ forces! You do not want that. You got her here but you cannot trust her. She is as trustworthy as Cersei and as egotistical and irrational!” Tyrion knew that Sansa was right to warn Jon of his actions. He was close to losing the support of his bannermen and Jon would be a fool to ignore her counsel. But he felt unfair to compare his queen to his sister, although, an ugly part of him knew that there were some actions that were comparable.

“If they are to leave then their arrogance and cowardice will -”

“You are putting yourself at risk!” Sansa’s voice was thick with frustration and louder than Tyrion had ever heard it before.

“Can’t you see that we have more enemies now than ever?! I can’t- I won’t let anything happen to you, or Bran, or Arya. It’s more important now than it was before! The Northern Lords are fools to disregard what I have done and why I have done it! If I die, then I die. It is more crucial that the Night King is defeated than who sits in power, or who claims the glory at the end of this war.” Jon paused, the anger that the two shared filled the room, it seeped through the door into Tyrion. All was still for just a moment, before Jon continued talking, his voice soft, filled with uncertainty.

“I need you by my side. If you are not, then all is lost. I want you to help me.” Tyrion’s palms had become sweaty, he hadn’t realised he was holding his breath. He knew he needed to carry out his task soon before his absence was truly noticed. He couldn’t return without an answer. But he was stunned into silence, into stillness, he could not move and he did not want to.

“Surely, you are not blind to my f… Jon, I will do what is right by our family. But I warn you, do not put all of your trust into a southern ruler. The Northern lords are more important than you think, you cannot lose their faith. After everything we spoke about, surely you can understand that. You cannot be seen as taking their side. _You are a Northerner_.” There was a heaviness, a weight to Sansa’s words that Tyrion could tell meant so much more than Tyrion knew. She stated this in a matter of fact way, the emotion that was present before had now vanished, her tone was deprived of any feeling.

“Sansa, you’re right. And I’m sorry for putting you through this. But I know her better than you do, she’s temperamental… Well, her only goal is to sit on the Iron Throne. All of this, our war, our home, our lives, is exactly that, ours,” He paused and lowered his voice to a whisper, “she’s only helping us so that she’s able to hold power over the North.”

“Yes, you saw to that when you gave up our independence.”

“It’s more complicated than that. Please, let me explain-”

“Your actions have consequences. You have weakened our position. Daenerys is not the only thing you have to worry about, remember that,” she said with a stern voice that reminded Tyrion of her Lady mother, “all I have left to say to you is... don’t you dare bed her in our home _ever_ again.”

There was a loud slam that echoed through the corridors, which caused Tyrion to jump out of his trance. He immediately raised his fist to the door and knocked as a reflex. He regretted doing it but knew that he could not be caught listening to their conversation. There was shuffling inside the room, mumbling between the two, and footsteps approached the door. Tyrion straightened himself and tried to rid his face of any trace that he had just heard far too much of their conversation. The door’s lock clanked loudly as it was turned and Sansa Stark appeared in the doorway, her cheeks red and her eyes filled with worry. When she saw Tyrion, she smiled pleasantly.

“Oh, Lord Tyrion. I wasn’t expecting guests-”

“Forgive me, my Lady. I know that it is late but I have come on the request of Queen Daenerys.” Tyrion found the words leaving his mouth without his conscious decision. Sansa opened her mouth to verbalise a thought but then turned to Jon, who was standing out of Tyrion view, behind the door. She paused and looked at him for a just a second, her reaction to him filled with such vehemence.

“Jon, we will have to discuss this matter another time,” Sansa stated politely to Jon, despite her expression, as if their previous emotional conversation hadn’t taken place. She really had mastered the art of hiding one’s intentions and real feelings. Tyrion had always admired that about her. Jon appeared in the doorway, as he cloaked himself in his winter furs, his expression dark and moody. Tyrion straightened himself and bowed his head to Jon out of courtesy and guilt.

“Oh Jon, I apologise for interrupting your evening-”

“It quite alright, Lord Tyrion. Jon was just leaving.” Sansa stated this with a tone that to anyone else, would have seemed polite but given the circumstances, Tyrion could hear the annoyance in her voice.

“Good evening, Sansa. Lord Tyrion.” Jon passed them both and quickly went down the stairs. Tyrion watched him as he left, the warmth of the chamber following him.

Tyrion was quick to return his attention back to Sansa, she stepped aside and gestured for Tyrion to enter. Which he did with a small, polite smile on his face, although, he did not feel as though he could smile. Instead, felt rather awkward and riddled with guilt.

“What brings you to my chamber, Lord Tyrion?” Sansa asked in a light tone.

Tyrion quickly scanned the room, there wasn’t a chair on the floor, this made Tyrion feel somewhat unsure of what he had heard. There were no personal items on display, everything was in the correct order. The room was neat and filled with the light from the grand fireplace, casting the room in warmth and a pleasant fragrance. The stone walls were grey, the furniture a deep, rich brown and any comforting furnishings were the colours of the Stark and Tully family; grey and teal. He turned around the face Sansa and saw her staring down the staircase before shutting the door. He knew that she wished for Jon to be in his place.

“I am on the request of Queen Daenerys, she has asked me to inform you that tomorrow evening, she wishes for you and the rest of your household to her war council. She does not feel that we are approaching this with enough hast.” Tyrion surprised himself with how easy he jumped back into his role, how formal his voice was, and how easy his manner.

He watched Sansa pass him to her desk, her hands knitted together as she massaged her ring finger. She raised her eyebrows, clearly surprised by his queen’s forthcoming nature. Tyrion hadn’t considered how it would sound until he said it; it was rude for the guest to demand such things. Sansa poured herself a cup of water and take a sip with a small, deadly smile on the corner of her lips.

The large room was mainly fit for entertaining guests. There was an area that could quite easily fit a bed but instead, had another sitting area with storage cupboards and a vanity mirror with a divider. Tyrion noticed that there was a door to his right, just behind him, that was slightly ajar. Within the room, held a large bed with the Starks two snarling dire wolves (which were carved out of wood) hanging above her bed. It was dark, but not dreary. Instead, it had a cosy feeling to it, homelike, and a sense of fortitude. She had quite made this space her own.

“I have wanted to speak with you for a while now, Lord Tyrion.”

“Please, you can just call me Tyrion.” Sansa smiled at him and nodded, sitting down in her desk chair, putting distance and a barrier between the two of them.

“And you can call me Sansa.”

She had grown so much since the days he called her his wife. Now, that they were alone and he could examine her freely and without the watchful eyes of others. He noticed that she no longer looked like a child, she had grown into a great beauty, more beautiful than her Lady mother and her other relatives. Her features were sharp, her skin pale and clear, her eyes were the Tully blue, and her hair was thick, wavy, and a deep autumn auburn copper. She wore her hair in thick curls and waves, placed behind her shoulders. She had a taken her hair out of the complex style she wore on the first night, now it was in a much more natural and much less intimidating fashion. She looked beautiful and regal, well, the northern version of the status. He had never seen her this way before.

The naivety and purity that once radiated off her was now gone. She held herself in a different manner; in a way that seemed like she was shielding herself, never quite being fully honest with whom she spoke. The grief for her family, the pain from her childhood and the traumas that she experiences when she just became a woman had aged her face in a way that did not present wrinkles, but rather, that her own porcelain skin had now turned into a sturdier material.

This explained why she seemed quite reserved from him, she was cold in her affections and cautious in her actions. He was not surprised, considering what he had heard since arriving at Winterfell. She has endured so much, she had survived so much, and yet, she did not seem to have become unkind, because of it. He once thought she would have made Joffrey a wonderful queen, and now, he can definitely see that he was right not to underestimate her.

“As I said, Queen Daenerys-”

“I was not responsible for your framing, I hope you know. I did not purposely partake in the murder of Joffrey. I used as a pawn in his murder with the intentions of framing you. I want you to know I had no part in your framing and no idea of the event prior to it happening. From my understanding, it was a plan that was roused by Lady Olenna to protect Margaery, orchestrated by Lord Baelish, so that he could hold more power over the South and the North.” Tyrion looked at her with shock, he had not expected those to be the words that come out of her mouth.

He had spent many years wondering, questioning her part in the conspiracy to have him executed for a murder that he did not commit. He spent many years doubting her in the back of his mind, as his paranoia overtook him. Those were solemn days, filled with anger and regret. To have the clarity he needed after so many years almost brought tears to his eyes.

That event changed his entire life for the worse and in some ways, for the better. That event drove him to the darkest part of his person, a side that he had oppressed for many years. That trial had revealed the truth within his father, how fickle love is to him, and how, family truly did not mean much when it came to being a Dwarf. But it did also show him who his true friends were, the love his brother had for him, and that he does have the ability to carry on. Much like Sansa Stark was able to carry on. He wondered if Cersei knew that Sansa had no part in the planning of her son’s murder, or whether, she still holds a spitefulness towards her. He found a new sense of gratitude toward Sansa that he hadn’t felt before, she must have known how much he needed to hear those words. Kindness was one of her greatest virtues.

“Thank you… Sansa. You may not know how much I have wanted… and needed to hear that.” Sansa smiled at him and gestured for him to sit down on a chair that was near to her desk. But Tyrion stayed standing as he knew he needed to get back to his queen, as she must be paranoid about his whereabouts.

“I beg your pardon, Sansa. But I was wondering why you did not have Lady Brienne outside your door this evening? I was told that you often have a guard for your protection.” Tyrion felt somewhat odd asking this question, but he needed to see her face when she answered. He needed to have some sort of context to the conversation he had just overheard.

“Ah well,” She looked down at her hands for only a second, an expression flickered across her features before she returned back to her previous state of polite indifference.

“I do normally have Brienne with me during the late hours. However, since I have received word that your brother was on his way to Winterfell and would soon be with us, I wanted to give Brienne the opportunity to see him. I have noticed that she has become rather fond of him.” Tyrion frowned at her, another unexpected answer.

He did not doubt that it was true but he felt that he knew the real reason; that Sansa wanted to speak with Jon alone this evening. Because, whatever it was they were discussing earlier, could not be overheard by anyone.

How unfortunate for them that their precautions did not work.

“I did not know that Jaime was coming here.”

This was more information that was new to him. The fact that Jaime is travelling to Winterfell must mean something has happened between him and Cersei. Was he cutting his political ties with the Lannisters? Or was he sent on a diplomatic mission due to what happened at the meeting in the Dragon Pit? Tyrion knew that he must tell Daenerys.

“Yes, I only found out a few nights ago. I suspect he’ll be here on the orders of Cersei. His arrival will cause a disruption, I am sure.” Sansa looked down at the letters upon her desk, Tyrion did not attempt to try read the scribbled handwriting from where he was stood. He did not care to know who Lady Sansa’s informant is, for it did not help him right now. To change the subject away from this family, as it made him feel rather uncomfortable, considering the current circumstances, he decided to ask a question that he was afraid of the answer.

“Sansa, I do not mean to pry on your personal affairs,” this caused Sansa to straightened up and look Tyrion dead in the eye. She met him with an expression that caused Tyrion to believe that she was daring him to ask about Jon. She tilted her chin upwards, her eyes set upon him. Those eyes. Those beautiful and fearsome eyes, many men will fall in love with them and many men will die because of them. “I only ask as to why you do not have a handmaiden? I presumed a lady of your standing would require at least one.”

Sansa relaxed and a distant smile touched her lips. She clearly was relieved of this question, confirming to Tyrion that Jon was clearly a sensitive topic to her. This did not bring him any sort of comfort, but rather, it caused him to worry for what Jon’s true intentions are and state of their relationship.

“I have had handmaidens ever since I was a girl. I had multiple when I was in the Capital, Shae obviously being the closest one to me. I cared so much for her,” that small, private smile once again fluttered across her face but was quickly lost, “however since I have returned home… I do not feel the need for such things. There are far too many important duties to care for now, I do not need someone to look after me like I once did as a child.”

“Indeed,” Tyrion replied.

It was rather clear that Lady Sansa did not require to be mollycoddled. Once one has faced the harsh relativities of their world, the passions of childhood seem somewhat foolish and are easily forgotten. Even though he believed her, he felt that there might be more to that answer than what she was not willing to give.

To hear Sansa speak Shae’s name brought back the awful events of the night he murdered his father. He could not bring himself to tell Sansa the truth of what happened that night, he did not want to see how she changed towards him as he revealed that he murdered Shae. Once the only friend to Sansa in the Capital, a woman that fiercely loved her, but was quick to betray her under the scrutiny of Tywin and Cersei Lannister. This not the night for such heartbreaks.

“I must be getting back. It is rather late and I am in need of my bed.” He lied. Tyrion knew he wouldn’t be getting much sleep that night, due to the questioning he will receive from Daenerys and the questions that he had for himself. He did not know yet whether he should divulge his knowledge of Sansa’s and Jon’s private conversation to his Queen, or whether it was for everyone’s best interest that he kept it to himself… for now. Until there were any further developments to bring clarification on the context of their late-night argument and their relationship.

“It must be so stranger for her…” Sansa’s voice was quiet as if she was speaking to herself. Her eyes were glued to Tyrion as she studied him.

“I’m sorry?-“ Tyrion went to ask what Sansa meant but she was quick to interrupt him.

“I must bid you farewell for tonight, Lord Tyrion, as it is rather late and I am in need to raising early in the morning.” Tyrion nodded his head, completely forgetting that he had not received a reply to his original question, having been so easily distracted by Sansa’s words. He went to leave the room before Sansa spoke again, his thoughts muddled and complex.

“Lord Tyrion, you can tell Queen Daenerys that I will be in attendance for the meeting tomorrow. I am, after all, the Lady of Winterfell. Brienne will meet with you to arrange any further details, but for now, I bid you a good night.” Sansa stood up to leave, any animosity she displayed earlier toward Daenerys was not present. She led Tyrion to the door and he left her warm chambers into the cold passages. She seemed tired and upset as he bid her a farewell.

Tyrion descended the stairs and was quick to make his way back to Daenerys. The guards outside Brandon Stark quarters were currently walking toward Arya Stark’s chambers, leaving Tyrion out of sight. He had almost made his way down the icy staircase when he stopped due to the harsh, hushed voices echoing down through the corridor.

“Jon, we cannot discuss this anymore, she’s sleeping. Come to me tomorrow and we’ll come up with a plan. I’m sorry, Jon, I am.”

Tyrion could tell that was Samwell Tarly’s voice, he made sure to continue down the steps, where he was met with Jon and Sam whispering in the passageway, Sam clutching onto a doorknob that led to his and his family’s chamber. They parted as they heard Tyrion approach them, Sam looked surprisingly at Tyrion before quietly greeting him. Jon turned to face Tyrion, his expression still tense.

“Lord Tyrion.” Jon greeted him with a solemn tone.

Lord Snow said his goodbyes to the pair before passing Tyrion at the stairs and going back up.

Tyrion was left in the passageway alone and in a dilemma. He knew he needed to get back but he wanted to follow Jon, he needed to see what Jon’s next actions were. He waited for a moment, before quietly making his way back up the stairs. He walked lightly on his feet, making his way back to Lady Sansa’s chambers.

He neared the staircase that led up to her chamber, coming to a halt at the bottom. From his advantage point, he was able to quickly glance around the corner, up at the grand door of the Lady’s chambers. As he expected, he saw Jon was waiting there. Tyrion stayed in his place and waited, holding his hand over his mouth so his breath was not heard by Jon. He had once before followed Jon to the door of a powerful female, careful not to be seen or heard. He felt somewhat sick, he dreads to be a witness to the same events that he witnessed on the boat just all those moons ago. But this time, it would two Starks whispering in the night, not a wolf and a dragon.

Tyrion wished for the sake of everyone that he was wrong, and that, it was just his mind judging this situation by a lower standard that he was accustomed to. The Starks were not liars, they were honourable people that hold themselves and everyone else to a very high standard of conduct. Tyrion knew that it was unfair to think such things about them.

Tyrion heard Sansa’s door open, after the second knock. He quickly hid but was able to hear her sigh as she was greeted by Jon.

“Jon, what are you doing here?” Her voice was strained as if she had been crying. Is that the reason she wanted Tyrion to leave so quickly? So she could cry in privacy? Tyrion ached to see what was happening but kept still. Because once again, he knew what he was doing was wrong. Was he even doing it for the sake of his queen? Or for himself? He dare not know. In the privacy of the passageway, Tyrion could seem the shadows of the guards through the archway in front of him, as they made their way back to Brandon Stark’s doorway. But they could not see him. He looked behind him and could see the shadows of Sansa and Jon cascading down the staircase to his side, deformed and blurred.

“We cannot leave things like this between us.” Jon sounded as if he was once again pleading for Sansa, instead of stating a fact.

“I do not know if there is much more I have to say-”

“Don’t lie to me!” Jon sounded hurt by this, Tyrion quickly looked around back at the couple. He was surprised to find that Jon had moved, one hand firmly on the door to keep it open and the other cupping Sansa’s cheek, both looking deeply into the other’s eyes. The light from the fireplace casting them into silhouettes. Tyrion’s breath stopped, his eyes wide open as he watched. He heard the footsteps of the guards and quickly snapped his head to look back at the archway. He saw that they were approaching him, so he was quick to turn his attention back the couple at the doorway.

“How can you not know what my true intentions are?” Jon’s voice was barely audible, a soft whisper said between the two. Before Tyrion could witness Sansa’s reply, the pair went into her chamber, the golden light from her fireplace made the two appear almost holy as they stepped into the comfort of privacy. Whatever Sansa had replied to Jon, it was far too quiet for Tyrion to hear. His ability to look in on their private moment had passed as they closed and locked the door behind them. What was to happen next between the pair was unknown to Tyrion, as he knew he needed to get back. His ability to spy upon them had expired, now the mystery lives on.

Confusion, shock, and adrenaline pumped through his veins. He did not want to believe that the oldest Stark siblings were engaging in an political sabotage behind the backs of every nobleman and commoner. Or perhaps, something far worse and far more personal was about to take place. If anyone were the find out. By all the gods, Tyrion knew Daenerys would burn down the ancient castle of Winterfell with aid of her two remaining dragons out of spite.

Although if his queen were to find out, he knew he would feel and somewhat understand her betrayal. For he knew that she had quite fallen in love with the northern lord, Jon Snow. For her to find out that perhaps his feelings are not as honest as he had proclaimed them to be, would cause Daenerys a great deal of pain. She cannot feel any hint of dishonesty or a shift in loyalty. She was not the type of woman to be rejected, nor was she able to deal with her emotions in a healthy manner. He could not bear to witness the Mother of Dragons scorned, enraged.

He needed her to stay level-headed, focussed on the task at hand, it was crucial for all their sakes. If Tyrion was to divulge the information that only he was privy to, he was sure that she would burn all the Starks alive, before turning her back on the Lannisters, killing them all one by one until she felt that her anger was satisfied. He wished for it not to be true but he did not want to test it.

It would be an act of treason to keep this information away from his queen but to tell her when he did not know all of the facts, it could spark a fire that he would not be able to contain. He was willing to put his own safety at risk for the greater good. He did not want to be responsible for any more deaths. The only thing he knew he would be able to do was to lie. It burned him and made his mind ache, but he cannot tell the truth. Not to Daenerys and not anyone that was at Winterfell. He wished for his brother, Jaime, to be here already as he would listen to Tyrion. But he could not even confine in Jaime, for he was not sure of his brother’s loyalties.

Overloading on his thoughts, Tyrion decided not to go up to the door and listen more to the Stark’s conversation, due to the fear of what he might discover. He wanted to stay ignorant on this matter for as long as he could, for as long as he could keep it to himself, for as long as everyone was cooperating and safe.

Besides, he needed to find out what Sansa meant when she stated, _w_ _hat Bran has found out_. Tyrion needed to find what the Starks knew that no one else did. Why was it so crucial for no one else to know? Why did it cause Jon Snow such emotional distress? Whatever it was, it is key to understanding and putting right to everything he had just overheard.

For the first time, in a very long time, Tyrion felt that he needed a strong drink.


	5. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All I am trying to say is, I would not object to it.” Arya stared at her in shock. The girl that Arya had known when they were little was strictly dogmatic and would dutifully follow the prestige of titles and ranks but yet, here she was, casting it aside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it has been a long time since this story has been updated with a new chapter. I wanted to get few more chapters out before the start of the show but never mind, now. Hope you all enjoy a rather long chapter. 
> 
> [For context: Arya doesn't know what's happened between Jon and Daenerys since they arrived in Winterfell. She's aware of a romantic attachment but not the full details]

The alarming cold of the wind did not hide its fearsome greed for sensitive flesh that morning. It found its way into Arya Stark’s gloves, enrapturing her fingertips and making them numb. The young woman grasped Needle with an extra firm grip, trying to ensure that she did not drop her precious sword. The snow was falling with a gradual pace, it floated down onto those who were in the courtyard, covering them in a layer of a frosted blanket. She watched with a sense of awe and failed to notice that her winter leathers had become white and damp. 

She arose earlier than usual that morning, in order to gain privacy in the courtyard when practising on one of the many thick wooden posts, that were dedicated to sword training. She tapped her sword against the target, easily falling into step, allowing her body to take over her mind. She swayed and spun in order to exercise her muscles, as she needed to stay warm in order to suffer the frost. Her movements were swift, graceful, strong and poised as she was practised the Water Dance of the free city of Braavos. As limber and precise a small stray cat, she hit every mark with ease. She performed the dance of life, of death and of murder. 

As the numbing sensation in her limbs started to leave her touch, she heard the snow crunching behind her, notifying her of a person’s arrival. She whipped her body around the face them, her trusted sword at the ready. She was greeted by a familiar face, the face of a young man. A face that once held much comfort for her, a face that brought her happiness during her darker days. She spent many years picturing his face when he left her, wanting to see him again but knowing, sadly, regrettably, that this would not be. But yet, here he was, standing before her with a playful smile upon his handsome face, the snow melting on his head due to his body warmth. 

It stunted her to think that the gods- whatever god it might be- had shown her this kindness. She still could not quite believe it but here he was in her home, as clear and as real as the thick snow beneath her feet and Needle in her hand. Their reunion, just a few days prior, had not been a dream, and yet, she felt silly for avoiding him as much as she could. 

“I hope you don’t mean to strike me,” Gendry jokes, standing tall and strong with an impressive hammer in his large hands. He pulled back the thick scarf that was covering his face, giving Arya an uneasy smile. Arya quickly regained a more relaxed pose, putting Needle back onto her belt. She did not reply to him, as she knew that her actions would answer him quite clearly. 

“What are you doing here?” She asked, still not quite finding the confidence or power to look him in the eye. 

The youngest Stark girl did not fear him, as there was very little she feared anymore. The world had been a cruel place for her and she had returned the favour, in kind. From years of running away from those who wished her harm, from her training, from all of her hard and harrowing lessons, she had been left in the shell of Arya Stark of Winterfell. But now, she felt that she was someone entirely different within her to the girl he once knew. The only thing the Stark girl did fear in that courtyard was that the man standing before her would not recognise the woman she had become, nor would he like what he saw, if he dared to look hard enough. 

“The same as you. I wanted to get some practice in before Davos got up and started bossing me around again.” He explained, gesturing his weapon of choice. 

She allowed herself for just a moment, just one second, to indulge in the shape of his arm. It was exquisite; so muscular that she could almost see the definition through his clothing. The little amount of facial hair he had upon his pronounced jawline was covered in delicate flakes of snow, causing him to appear much older than he actually was. His dark brown leathers and green cloak had become wet from the melting snow, Arya watched the glistening texture of the leathers on his chest. It concerned her how much she enjoyed the sight. But she did not want to give in to those types of thoughts as it did not provide any benefit to their situation. It was her family that needed her right now, she did not have time for this southern boy with piercing blue eyes and a charming smile. 

“I meant what are you doing in Winterfell,” she responded, trying to keep her tone as balanced and as seemingly uninterested as possible. 

“Oh. I thought you knew… Clearly not.” He glanced down, his smile wavering. 

“Ah, well, Davos came and got me when him and your brother were at Dragonstone. I went with them beyond the Wall, I had never seen anything like it, it was far from the slums of Flea Bottom. I’ve never been so scared... Now, I’m here,” he paused and looked around, taking in the beauty of the castle complex before finding Arya’s eyes, “I want to help, I want to be of some use instead of being down south, wasting my youth away as a Blacksmith, being no good to anyone that matters.” He stated, frankly. He was still the earnest and humble man she remembered him to be, she felt a slight twinge in her heart and she noticed herself becoming warm despite not moving. 

“I know I can be of some real use here. Even if it’s in the forge.”

He leant against the wooden column beside Arya, placing his weapon down next to him. He observed her for a moment, capturing her into his memory and secretly keeping it for himself. It made her feel uncomfortable to be watched so closely, to be noticed by another with the intent of just seeing her. To try to understand who she was, not for her crimes or her status- not even for her family name- but for who she was in that moment. 

His presence reminded her that there was still good men in this poisoned world. She had seen some of the worst parts of it, and at times, allowing herself to contribute to that never-ending pit of sorrow and vengeance. It seemed necessary at the time- no, it was. It was a dark and painful feeling that lived in her chest and stomach, like knotted soaked rags that slowly twisted its way through her body. She tried to ignore it but as she laid restless in her bed, the twilight hours keeping her company, she was kept up awake, unable to forget the past. Despite the horrific images that lived on inside of her eyelids, she managed to preserve through the dreadful things she had done. 

She has spent so many years thinking over the past, wishing that she could change it all. She had wasted her time hoping that she could bring back her loved ones, whispering silent pleas to the God of Death wishing to see their faces once again. It left a bitter taste in her mouth that a man like Beric Dondarrion could be brought back to life by his priest and their fire god. But her family could not be amongst those that were saved. She had festered in the depths of desire but never allowed herself to become stationary. She was a fighter, just like her Lady Mother was, right until the very end. But there was loneliness that came with fighting and to be alone in the world is a terrifying prospect and for a long time, it was her reality. 

Not anymore.

Her willingness to come home and her bravery to step foot back into Winterfell gave her pride. It swelled inside of her and blossomed heat throughout her body. She couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was that enabled her to come home, despite the unknown and all of those painful memories. Perhaps, it was her curiosity or the loneliness or maybe, she was finally tired of fighting. The pleasant feeling of this accomplishment brought a smile to her face. It was just a private, genuine smile that she did not hold for any man or woman but only for herself. She was proficient without her kin but now, with the protection of her people and the Heart Tree, she would finally become who was meant to be; the She-Wolf of Winterfell. 

She never thought she would see him again, though. Gendry Waters, Robert Baratheon’s last (known) alive bastard. The southern man did not remind her of the king that she met when she was a girl. King Robert Baratheon was a beast of a man, obscenely fat, his gut far larger than her Lady mother’s stomach was when she was with child, due to his years of abusing the pleasures of the Southern court- sweet summer wines, hearty ales, fatty foods, and obedient women. To accompany his waning looks and health, he was quite repulsive to the Stark girl because of his garish attitudes and a booming voice that roared when he laughed. She did not feel love for that man, even though her Lord father thought of him as his brother. 

Gendry was not like his Lord father in temperament but represented everything the dead king once was, in his younger, stronger years. Arya had always found him handsome, even when she was a girl and didn’t quite understand what that meant but her connection- and god forbid- her attraction for him, went beyond any of that. He was there for her during a time that was testing. After her father was murdered, she had been sent with the band of recruits for the Wall. Really, they were a brigade of misfits and criminals, a handful of dangerous men in amongst scared, young boys. 

Her Lord father’s last dutiful and loving kindness to her was placing her under the protection of Yoren. The northern man in charge of taking these recruits to Castle Black. Her Lord father’s quick thinking and Yoren’s loyalty saved her life. Her hair was cut, her name and clothes changed; Arya Stark of Winterfell had died beside her father and Arry was born. The orphan boy, Arry, did not have a father, nor did he lose his family and purity at the statue of Balor. 

So, Arya took on this new character and tried to forget her pain, with dirt under her fingernails and blisters on her feet, she followed, trying to escape the cusps of the Lannisters. Trying to find peace once more. But the night was as relentless back then as it was now, leaving her restless and unable to see anything else other than their faces. This merciless cycle led her to become who she was- it allowed her to accomplish her greatest feet, as well as experience her deepest shames. 

This journey meant her safety but it also meant that she left her sister behind, to be a Prisoner of War. She had often thought back on that day throughout the years, trying to see her sister in her mind, as well as her father. But as she became a woman, slowly learning each lesson, she sought to stop dwelling upon the past; for the dead did not hear her weep. Instead, she had tried to foretell her future but that also did not leave her in a state of contentment. So, the only other option available and the only option that she knew would bring any sort of satisfaction to her traumatised mind, was that she only could focus on her present. As that was the only thing within her power to change.

Regardless of her pain, through her years of avoiding capture, she was able to explore who she really was, outside of the expectation of her household. Even though she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t, Gendry saw through all of it, through all of her lies and masquerades. It was as if he knew her before she fully could understand who she was. Throughout that traumatic and challenging period of her life (the brink of what was about to come), he stood by her. They fought beside each other and protected one another through it all. 

She became bonded and reliant on him after she had lost the protection of her status, the expectation of safety, and the dependability of her family unit. She started to force him to become her new family in her mind but never in reality. He showed her what friendship could mean outside of the wolf’s den, he reminded her that there was kindness still in people and in herself. But she had forgotten his humble and generous teachings over the years, as she started to slowly forget about him. 

She had become lost over time. Her morals and ability to love had stripped itself from her breast, leaving her to feel detached- to become content with solitary. Her existence was reclusive, an unsatisfying battle for survival that left her on the brink of her own sanity. One can become co-dependent upon the endless cycle of senseless need for satisfaction, the need to run away from the world they once knew. She ran as far as Essos, to the Faceless Men and to the God of Death, and when she was on the cusps of their sanctuary, almost in acceptance in the eyes of her god, she denied them access to her soul. 

One of her strongest virtues was her independence of mind, she wouldn’t allow them or anyone snatch that away from her. She had the physical abilities of a soldier but she did not possess the most necessary aspect: the willingness to follow without question, as she was not one to aimlessly do what she was told without thought. 

If she had the power and capabilities to pursue the endeavours of her past, to accomplish and overcome what she has, she is more than able to keep this southerner out of her sensibilities. She will gain any love and affection she needed from her family, she was not in need of another type of closeness of any kind, despite the fact that he did seem to be willing to show her devotion. 

“I’m not just here to practice. I’m waiting for my sister-” She offered him the truth, as he was kind enough, to be honest with her. She cursed herself for giving him more than she wanted to, her mouth spoke before her mind could form the correct sentence. 

“Oh yes, your sister-” He retorted, walking toward her with a large smile on his face. He tried to hide his expression, looking down at the ground. 

“Oh, for fuck's sake, not you too!” 

“What?”

“I think it’s best that you keep your thoughts about my sister to yourself,” Arya replied calmly, her tone demanding control over their conversation.

“What you going on about?” 

Gendry’s smile quickly faded, he studied Arya with deep concern. He still walked toward her, trying to take hold of her hand but she didn’t allow him access to her person. She was shocked by his genuine worry for her feelings. His eyes penetrated her senses, holding her in place and not letting her go until she gave an answer. Arya felt her cheeks burn from embarrassment, she felt utterly ridiculous for caring so much of his opinion. She tried to caution herself to remember that his thoughts on her, and her sister, and her family, did not matter. She did not mean to become so flustered in the wake of her envy. 

“I haven’t met a man who hasn’t fancied Sansa,” she sighed. “With her pretty eyes and pretty hair. They’ve always liked the way she spoke and the way she holds herself…” Her voice trailed off into silence, feeling somewhat foolish and immature. She had reacted quickly, her childhood jealousy for her sister once again coming out, even though she didn’t want it too. 

But he did not seem to mind. He chuckled to himself, his laugh causing her cheeks to become crimson with temporary shame. He kept her eye contact as he lowered his torso so that his face was near hers. Her heart was beating with an unforgivable force, she had never felt this type of heat before. 

Not even when she took the life out of a man’s eyes. 

His breath was hot against her face and it caused tingles to dance down her neck. She wanted to walk away from him but she wouldn’t dare move, paralysed by the need to know what he had to say. 

“Well, you see…” He studied her face, his voice low and deep, “she does have nice hair but I prefer brunettes, myself.” Her eyes widened and she stared at him in shock. 

Gendry chuckled loudly, his shoulder shaking with delight. He seemed to take pleasure from teasing her, which caused her cheeks to twitch, as she too, felt a smile creeping onto her face. His eyes twinkled as he watched her, giving her personal space back to her. She almost felt like she was enjoying herself, wanting this type of attention from him, approving of his playful conversation tactics. It went against everything she had promised herself.

“Oh, Arya. You haven’t changed,” he grinned. Arya snapped her eyes up at him, an eruption of complete surprise jolting its way through her senses. 

Ever since he had come back into her life, he had surprised her with his familiar nature. He did not seem to care about their situation or the impending fear of war, nor did he even seem to notice that their social stations provided a formal divide. It did not matter to him that she was the daughter of a Lord and Lady and that he was bastard born. It never really had. He did not seem to note her cold facade or the way her eyes became sombre before they closed. He only seemed to see her for who she really was, despite any of her hardships or cruel coping mechanisms. 

Arya couldn’t help but feel herself warming to him. She beamed at him and saw him, truly saw him, for the first time, in a long time. It did not hurt her to hold her stare for she did not want to look away, nor did she fear what she saw. Before she allowed herself to become consumed with this feeling of bliss, her consciousness pricked her heart, reminding her that he wouldn’t stare at her so gently if he knew what she has become.

Their sweet moment was interrupted far sooner than Arya had hoped due to her sister’s sudden arrival. Gendry reluctantly tore his eyes away from the younger Stark sister and bowed to the Lady of Winterfell. 

“My Lady.” He acknowledged her with a jovial tone, a light pink tinge on his cheekbones. 

Sansa examined the two with no surprise, a slight smirk at the corner of her lips. She clearly had seen their interaction. Arya felt more embarrassed now than before, wanting nothing more to avoid their watchful gazes. She was finding it difficult to adjust to the reality that she was surrounded by four people (Sansa, Gendry, Jon, and Bran) that seem to know her so well, that could read her thoughts as if she had written them upon her skin. Sansa briefly nodded toward Gendry’s direction but not taking her eyes off her sister, she seemed to be bursting with glee because of what she had observed. 

“Arya, are you ready?” She asked, gesturing toward the Crypts of Winterfell. Arya felt flustered, finally noticing that the snow had caused her hair to be soaked, her feet were buried in snow and had become numb. She brushed the melting snow off her shoulder, looking to Gendry and was surprised to hear him ask, “Will you come visit me in the forge?”

“Only if I am in need of you,” Arya responded, quickly looking him up and down. Gendry gave her a dirty grin, his eyes full of energetic longing. He tried to hide his expression from Sansa but she knew exactly what was going on and smiled mischievously at the pair. Feeling somewhat embarrassed, Arya walked ahead of her sister, not taking the time to bid her companion a farewell. 

“Good day, Lady Stark,” Gendry tittered, clearly aloft by new possibilities. Sansa replied to him a manner that was polite and formal, quickly leaving to catch up to her sister’s fast-paced walk. 

“Good day to you as well, my lady!” He called after Arya, causing the young woman to cringe and then smile slightly, privately. 

Arya had managed to make her way to the archway of the Crypts before Sansa was by her side. She felt an unbearable burning sensation over her face than tingled her neck, all the way to her chest. Her palms were sweating and she felt thankful for the frost in the air, as it was the only way she knew she would be able to calm down. The Northern sisters took hold of a burning torch each, using the fire to light their way into their family’s past. Her sister was watching her as they walked through the dark together. Arya could feel her older sister’s bemusement, she was taking enjoyment from Arya’s embarrassment. 

“So…” Sansa taunted. 

“Oh, go on! Just say it!” Arya huffed, gesticulating her frustrations.

“The blacksmith that Jon brought back from Dragonstone… You two know each other… quite well,” she teased further, she flashed her sister a beaming smile in the darkness of the Crypts. 

“What of it?” Arya tried to hide her feelings but it was useless, as Sansa knew exactly what Arya was trying to conceal. 

“Am I right in thinking that he’s Robert Baratheon’s bastard?”

“Yes,” Arya answered.

The women of the North turned a corner, the dirt beneath their feet masked the sound of their steps. The carved stone faces of their ancestors watched them as they passed, unmoving but judging. The Starks were never alone once within the confines of the Crypts walls, walking further and deeper underneath the grounds of their home. Their history was here, with all of its many secrets. The Crypts had a distinctive smell that Arya would never forget, one of musk and dry leaves, it was the smell of her forebears; it was the scent of the past and the future that was before her. 

As they walked past the statues of long-dead Stark members, their faces carved to resemble family representatives that the girls never knew but only heard stories about. They were able to finally stand before their Lord father’s statue. It was tall but did not detail his likeness, despite this, it was of great comfort to them both. 

“I am the head of our house, now,” Sansa stated after a moment of silence. She placed her torch into the sconce next to their father’s statue, illuminating the two into a golden cascade of light and warmth. They took it in turns to light a candle for their father. 

“What about Jon?” Arya asked, trying to hide her expression from her sister. She felt panicked and confused by Sansa’s choice of words. It seemed unfair to cast Jon aside and for Sansa to take his place. Arya knew that Sansa was loyal and fair, so she could not possibly mean to overtake Jon’s position. She watched Sansa sigh and become tense after hearing Jon’s name, which seemed to be an odd reaction, her face was cold and stoic, not revealing what she was feeling. But Arya knew that something wasn’t quite right.

“Jon is our King. It doesn’t matter whatever he has promised to that bloody- to Daenerys,” Arya scoffed and smirked at her Sansa, as she was not used to hearing her curse, “Jon will always be the King in my eyes, it’s who he is meant to be. But he is not the head of our house as he is not our father’s son, so, therefore, he cannot be the heir to Winterfell. He’s meant for greater things.” She spoke her words like a delicate whisper but there was a heavy weight to them. 

“I see-” 

Arya finally understood. She knew that Sansa was trying her best and she only wants to protect her family, she proved that by executing Littlefinger. But as the two women stared up to their father’s stone face, she only then began to comprehend Sansa’s importance for the future of their household. 

“What I mean to say is that,” Sansa placed a comforting hand on Arya’s shoulder, “I am the primogeniture daughter, I have a duty to our family that goes beyond courtesy and grace. Due to the succession of Ladyship bestowing onto me, whomever I marry and any children I bare will be the future of House Stark. Jon is the heir of House Targaryen by blood and by law, so his children will carry on that lineage. That’s to say if we don’t all die,” she gave Arya a dry smile that soon became a sour frown. 

“However, you do not have to answer to these restraints or formalities. You are the second-born daughter, you do not have to worry about such things. If you wanted to find your happiness within a Blacksmith-”

“Oh, Sansa, please!” 

“All I am trying to say is, I would not object to it.” Arya stared at her in shock. The girl that Arya had known when they were little was strictly dogmatic and would dutifully follow the prestige of titles and ranks but yet, here she was, casting it aside. 

“Yes,” Sansa continued, “he is a bastard and bastards will never have the true claim. However, he is of a noble house, his father was the king! But I know that does not matter to you. I would ensure that you will always have a place here. You will be granted land, an annual allowance, and perhaps a castle or even a stronghold of your own. I will allow you to keep our family name, or maybe change it slightly, which will be passed down to any children you might have. As long as they do not contest their cousin’s rule over Winterfell. You will be a vassal house for House Stark and serve us in times of need. Your family will have a place at Winterfell, always.” Sansa spoke very quickly, her excitement bubbling through her walls of dignity and protection. 

She had changed so much from the little girl in Arya’s memory, head full of fantasies and tales of romance. She had become hard to read and practical in her approach to the political conversation. She was a fair leader of their household, a fine combination of their parents. She took after her father’s ability to contemplate and the Northern ways of honour and intellectual judgement. But she had her mother’s quality of understanding interrelationships of the great Houses, and her fearsome motherly strength; the will to protect her own. 

But there was something within Sansa that was different from her family, she was able to see into people and know of their true intentions, to see beyond any flattery or words, and truly see what they mean. This was a quality that Arya shared with her, as she was often able to tell whenever a person was lying. It would seem that Sansa has learnt this trait, as it was not a natural aspect of her personality from childhood. A consequence learnt from devastating circumstances. However, despite all of the pain she endured, there was still a very small, tiny even, aspect of romance still in her character. She still dreamed of better days.

“You have definitely given it quite a lot of thought,” Arya sighed and stared up at her sister, trying to capture her response, wanting to remember it. 

“I want to make you happy,” Sansa blushed, her chest fell and for a brief moment, she looked crestfallen, overcome with sadness. 

“You need not worry about my happiness, sweet sister. It is best you worry about your own.” 

As her words fluttered into the empty echoes of the Crypts, she saw a torch of firelight walking towards them. Jon stared at the sisters in front of him, as he pushed Bran’s wheelchair. His gaze was glued to Sansa, his brow pulled together in a frown but his eyes were soft. Sansa followed Arya’s stare and she turned to face the men that were approaching. But she did not hold Jon’s stare, instead, she seemed to be ignoring him, taking an unlit torch and lighting it with one in the sconce. 

The four Starks seemed uneasy within the torchlight of the Crypts. They walked beside one another further down, into the deeper depths of the tomb. They passed by Lyanna Stark’s statue and Jon briefly paused, casting his eyes upon the woman that he could call his mother. Arya had heard that since he had arrived back, he had spent much of his time beside her statue, trying to find peace in the lie he had been told his whole life.

Lyanna was the only female Stark to be buried in the Crypts. Arya believed it was her father’s doing as her aunt needed to be with her family after her life and into death. A gust of cold wind burst through the passageway, likely a snow storm had found its way to them. But something inside of Arya made her believe that it was more than that.

That was when she noticed it, a feather floated above her head and landed beside her sister’s feet. They had all seen it, stopping to silently staring down at the object. Arya had not seen this object before, it was not a feather that she had observed from any northern owls, blackbirds, or crows. The feather was dark brown with a white dotted design. Arya concluded that it must be from a southern bird. It reminded her of Kingslanding and the creatures that the southern lords would eat for their afternoon luncheons. The Guinea Fowl, a relatively large and ugly animal that the richer members of society believed to be worthy of their taste buds. Arya wondered why such a feather was in her home. 

Sansa elegantly bent down and picked it up, examining it closely before she exclaimed, “This is aunt Lyanna’s feather.”

“What do you mean?” Jon quickly asked. Sansa looked at her cousin, her body was tense and she gave him an expression that was soft but then became saddened, tearing her eyes away as if it hurt her to look at him. 

“When Littlefinger brought me back to Winterfell, I came down here to visit the tombs. I saw this feather on the floor beside Lyanna’s statue, so I dusted it off and place it onto her hand. It must have fallen off,” Sansa’s sentence drifted away into the Crypts as she walked back to her aunt’s statue and once again, returned the feather. 

Arya felt a sense of the foreboding inside of her, a real inclining of dread as she watched Sansa give the statue a final glance. She realised that the feather had chosen Sansa. It knew that the oldest Stark girl would understand. It felt like a warning, it caused her to feel sick and worried about her sister’s future. 

The pack continued on their path down into the Crypts, Arya played close attention to each statue. All of them decorated with what they fought with when living, either longswords, Direwolves, longbows, decorated with thick stone cloaks watching them pass. Seemingly proud of the true borns and angered by the Southern-born Lord taking step into their final resting place. 

“Where is Rickon’s statue? And Rob?” Arya asked into the dark, the golden light from their torches flickered, causing the walls surrounding her to look radiant but tragic, grand but devious, it was home but seemed foreign. 

“As Rickon had died on the battlefield, it was hard to retrieve his… body and to verify that it was him. I have asked Maester Wolkan to undertake the task of examining the remains and bones from the battle to try to determine if what we had recovered, is in fact, our Rickon,” Sansa explained, Jon watching her talk and sighing deeply. 

Bran seemed to be most upset from this news, he was always the closest to the youngest of the Stark children. The two were the nearest in age and were companions after the siege of Winterfell, the young boys bonding through their shared experience. He did not speak but his body had become heavy with grief, the Starks took a moment to remember the young boy. A child born into a world of fear, a time of war and discourse. The last of the summer Stark children, he was never ready for the world that was ahead of him. 

“He isn’t particularly skilled in this matter and it has been quite a long time since the battle, without any promising results. But I did commission a statue of him to be made, which will be ready to place within here once his remains are properly collected. Then, he will finally, be able to come to rest.” Sansa seemed to be deeply saddened by this fact. 

“It must be done before the war. He needs to be with his ancestors before the end.” Bran stated to his family, reminding them of the importance of unity, reminding them that no one should be left behind. 

The small pack came toward the end of this passageway, lighting the torches and candles as they passed, in order to find their way back. They stopped at the end to a statue of the eldest Stark child, Robb Stark. The stone stood taller than the young man from their collective memory, hair long and with a thick beard carved into his face. He wore the Stark armour decorated with a longsword in his gloved hands, his great dire wolf, Grey Wind, stood next to him, the two inseparable in life and in death. 

Horrific flashes flooded Arya eyes of the night of his death, it still dominated her dreams, her brother’s dead body tied to a horse with his dire wolf’s head sown onto his shoulders. The memory of his death still stabbed her stomach as sharp as the knife that cut her mother’s throat. He was the Young Wolf, no matter what any southerner or traitor said to differ. He was the future of House Stark, a future that never came to be. Sansa went to her brother’s statue, placing a single winter’s blue rose at its feet. Arya felt gratification that she had offered him this kind gesture. The remaining Starks left the statue of the boy that was once their fierce and loving leader, walking together down the long and cold passageway, deeper into the Crypts. 

The group had met on this particular morning to discuss matters that were too private for any other to hear. Not many would venture down into the Crypts out of respect or fear of what lurks down there. It was whispered that the Stark kept beasts of different sizes with their dead ones to protect them upon their journey from the living world. Although, Arya did not know where they were travelling to- for death was the only guarantee as a result of life. 

They passed the grandfather and uncle Brandon that they had never met. Arya wondered if her poor Uncle Benjen would ever be a part of their ancestral burial place? Or would he forever be a Man of the Night’s Watch, never to be a part of the Stark’s final resting place? 

She also feared that her Lady mother would not be permitted to be a part of the Crypts. Yes, she was a southerner. But she had brought five Stark children into the world. She was just as much a part of the family.

They continued down to the darker and colder parts of the Crypts, passed the face of Artos the Implacable, Cregan Stark who was Lord of Winterfell for many years, even serving as Hand of the King to Aegon iii after the Dance of Dragons. Then there was Torrhen Stark, bitterly known as the King Who Knelt. Arya’s brother Robb was known as the King Who Lost the North and perhaps, her cousin, Jon, will always be known as the King Who Bent the Knee. She wondered how her family would be remembered after they were gone. Perhaps, they would be the Last Starks, or even, the Starks of the Long Night, or optimistically, the Starks of the Forever Spring. 

They went further into the Crypts than she had ever been before. Even throughout her childhood, she had not crept this far, despite having a tendency for curiosity. They finally came to a stop at a great iron gate, taller than any living man. This was the only divide from the Starks of new and those from the time of myth- thousands upon thousands of years ago- to the before the Targaryen’s conquest or the Andal invasion. Jon went to open the gate with a large, rusted key putting his hand upon the iron bars and that was when Arya heard it; a whisper that was most sinister. It caused the hair to stand on the back of the neck and whipped her head around to look behind her. 

All she could see was the torches and candles dotted behind them but no one was there, just the still statutes and the living next to her. But she knew it wasn’t any of them that had spoken, it was something much more malignant and pernicious, it caused Arya’s heart to pound in her chest. She feared what it could mean, wanting to place her hand onto Sansa’s arm, wanting to find comfort. But chose not too, as she knew this was not the time for her fear. 

The gate opened after Jon had forced it with difficulty, creaking loudly and vibrating the walls around them, filling the air with dust, it pulsated with energy. Arya wondered why such a large and heavy gate was put in place for the older members of their house, was it to protect them from any sort of vandalism? Was it keep people out or was it to keep something in?

“Here is far enough,” came Bran’s calm voice, a loud whisper as if he didn’t want to disturb whatever was within this part of the tomb. The group took in the passageway in front, lighting dusty torches and palming spiderwebs away from their eyes. The tall stone walls were detailed with engravings of icicles, the stone glimmering in the light of the fire. 

The statues in this part of the Crypts were different from the other Starks; they were taller, far grander and even more detailed despite the years of wear. The old kings of Winterfell were men of legend, the myths of the stories that Arya heard as a child. Yet, here they were, their eminent features was proof of their existence. They were all wearing the same crown on their heads, just slightly differing from each king. A crown of the swords of their noble house with two dire wolves snarling at the other. They all had a great dire wolf by their sides, large and more fearsome than any of the dire wolves the Starks owned in recent memory. 

She could see the statue of Dorren Stark, the king who fought with giants and was known to trade with the Children of the Forrest. There was also Edderion the Bridegroom, Arya was not entirely sure why he had been given that title, as well as Walton the Moon King. Perhaps even Bran the Builder was in there, somewhere, the man that built this Crypt, he built Winterfell, he even built the Wall. 

She hoped to see a queen within the Crypts. A queen that could bring forth a new age for the women of House Stark, a woman who could solidify her rightful place as a ruler and leader of the ancient household. She hoped that this time would be soon. She hoped it would happen before it was too late. She hoped that there was a woman to remember what the North went through and excommunicate House Stark from their current southern and foreign queen, in order to cement the North’s independence and to establish their permanent monarchy. 

She hoped that woman would be her sister. 

Arya examined the craftsmanship and beauty of the tomb, taking time to look upon the greatswords they clutch in the men’s stone hands for the rest of time. They were wider than Arya’s leg and almost the same height as her, chipped and worn from use in battle, cast in iron and forged to protect the realms of men. 

There was a feeling of energy within this part of the castle that was different from any other, it seemed like the ground was vibrating and walls could speak, like it had been asleep and now, wanted to be awakened. Perhaps it was because they were underground, within the earth itself, amongst the dirt that supports the walls of Winterfell and gives nourishment to the Heart Tree. Jon seemed to notice it too, as he clutched onto his sword leaving Bran to investigate, spellbound and in awe of what he was seeing; a gust of his breath slowly leaving his mouth turning into sparkling flakes of ice as it floated into the air. 

“I thought father was the only one to have a greatsword, I suppose I should have known I was wrong,” Arya whispered to her kin, feeling uneasy under the eyes of the stone men. 

“Most of these swords would have been forged to replicate Ice. They would not have buried a Stark with the house sword, as it needed to be passed down from father to son throughout the centuries,” Jon replied to her, his hand still on his own Valyrian steel longsword. 

“Father’s sword was not the first greatsword in our family to be named, “Ice”. There was one before the Andals and before Valyrian steel came to Westeros. It is said to be made of actual ice, created by “the others”, who we now know as the White Walkers,” Bran replied. Jon snapped his head to look back at Bran in shock. The sisters did the same, walking back to their brother to give him their full attention. 

“What are you talking about?” Jon asked, a deep frown cast across his face. The light of the torches flickering, causing deep shadows to age him greatly. He looked more like the statued men than Bran did, due to the fact that Bran had taken after his mother’s looks, rather than his father’s. 

“Did you ever listen to Old Nan’s stories?”

“We were told not to listen to her, as she was making it up,” Sansa replied, seeming to become panicked. Arya could understand why she felt that way, whilst they spoke she tried to keep one eye on the dead stone Stark next to her, which seemed eager to arise from his throne. 

“All of it seems to be true, though, doesn’t it?” Bran rebutted causing Sansa to take a moment to consider his words before nodding, casting her scintillating blue eyes upon the cold grey of their ancestors; vibrant and inquisitive, her refined brows brought together. 

Jon cleared his throat, “there’s much we need to discuss before the war council meeting,” he paused, clearly uncomfortable with what he next needed to announce, “I’m sure you all have things you wish to ask me, in regards to our-”

“-you mean “your”,” Sansa interrupted. 

“Yes- yes, mine- my recent political alliance with the Southern households, abdicating from the throne in order to secure military support. Now, I want to make sure that you all understand that my loyalties are with everyone here present. You are my family. I will do whatever I deem to be right for my family-”

“What are you trying to say, Jon?” Arya asked. She could see his apparent distress, he was starting to panic as he was desperate to make them understand and to sympathise with his situation.

“I fear that Daenerys will want, after the war, an alliance between the Starks and Targaryens, between the North and the South that will become… more… permanent.” He seemed ashamed to admit such a thing and it caused Arya’s heart to thump in her chest. He couldn’t surely mean to unit their houses together in such a way? The Jon she knew growing up would not want to assemble himself with his aunt. He would have known that there was no honour in such an act. 

Arya tried to reframe from judgement until she had heard everything he had to say but her sister did not seem to have the patience. Arya had spent much time pondering over her sister’s sensibilities toward their cousin. She seemed to be very judgemental of his actions but still held him in high regard, seeming to be very loyal and protective. Sansa is a predominately caring with an intelligent mind and the soft nature of a Lady. She was right, she was the Lady of Winterfell, head of their household; she needed to do what was right for their people. This causes strain on her and Jon’s political companionship, especially when Jon whispers of a plot to unify their household in marriage with the last female Targaryen. 

But there a flaw to this logic, Jon was not a Stark. Well, he was in soul and character but not by name. He could not unite the Starks with the Targaryens (in this manner), as he was a Targaryen himself. Therefore, he couldn’t bring the North and South together with the marriage of a hated southern household. 

She could see that Jon was a man in need of forgiveness, due to his demeanour and nervousness when speaking to Sansa. She regarded him in a manner of which seemed to be quite abrupt and distant but there was still an underlining air of tender-hearted demeanour toward her cousin. Arya took the time to observe, without care of their personal opinions upon the matter, looking up at them trying to gauge what was the meaning behind their actions. 

The matter of Jon’s political liaisons and relationships arose much to Sansa’s clear and silent protests. “I do not see why we have to discuss this right now,” Arya chimed in, gaining a nod of approval from Sansa. 

“Because it’s something that has come to my attention, it shouldn’t come up in conversation later but I want to gain all of your opinions of the matter. Winterfell is our home and I want to do right by it if that means that I might have to engage in this… marriage,” he spat the word out, “to finally bring the North and South back together. So, I need to hear your thoughts, first.” Jon replied in a pleading tone. 

Sansa made a noise of exasperation, moving away from Jon to walk away. “We need political alliances!” He called after her, causing her to stop in her tracks and cast him a stare of absolute disgust. 

He raised his leather covered hand to his beard and deeply sighed as he covered his eyes. Arya had never seen this side of him before, as she remembered him to a joyful, funny, caring and at times, rather sensitive and brooding person. She had not been present during his growth from boyhood to a man, nor was she present during his reign over the North. But now, here he stood, the Warden of the North, trying to find the best solution for their safety in the years to come. However, despite this, Arya was not entirely comfortable with his actions or his reasoning behind them.

“Jon, I don’t think you understand,” Bran spoke in a soft, calm voice. “You are the blood of the dragon, by law a Targaryen, you can not bring House Stark into a political alliance for you do not have our name.” Arya went to Jon as she could tell these words had hurt him. She took hold of his hand and held onto it tightly, looking into his dark eyes and seeing the face of her father. 

“You are our family, always. But this plot would do you a disservice, I know you find her alluring but it would mean that you’ll become the queen’s husband. Even though you have more of a birthright than any other fucker out there,” this caused him to laugh and to place his hand onto her hair, roughing it up, much like he use to when they were children. 

“Do you really believe that she’ll allow you to take her throne away from her?” Arya gave him a meaningful look. It seemed that he wanted to retort her statement but in the end, he nodded his head in submission, knowing that she was right. 

“That is, of course, unless you want to…” Sansa asked in a small voice, her eyes full of venomous accusations and pain. Jon stepped back in shock then went to her immediately with the need to make amends with her. He took hold of her hands and looked at her very carefully in the eyes, capturing her gaze and clearing her mind of any adverse thoughts. 

“I thought you understood. Please try to understand,” Jon spoke in a whisper, evidently, he did not want the other two to hear what he had to say to Sansa. He tried to soothe her with frantic secrets but they did not seem to give the desired effect, as tears were prickling her eyes. The more he tried to pull her back in, into his influence and good favour, the more she seemed to be slipping away. 

“Did you bend the knee for love?” She finally spat out, a tear running down her cheek and a gasp leaving her lips. They both permeated with insecurities and required security for the fighting to come to an end. Arya knew she needed to knock sense into them, for they do not seem to be able to see sense by themselves. Arya peered at Bran, wanting to see if he understood what was happening. He caught her eye and gave her a perceptive smile.

Surely not. 

That couldn’t be it. Arya tried to bat the idea out of her mind. She would allow herself to view this moment as romantic, as it simply was not true. They were cousins, brought up to view each other as siblings. Even though they did not share the close relationship that Arya had with Jon, they were amicable when needed and polite when they weren’t in each other’s presence. It was a fight for loyalty, a whispered debate for clarity and the need of connection. It was a moment of betrayal, they all felt it, Sansa, especially. She was hurt by his actions because what it meant for the future of their house, not because it hurt her on a personal level. Wouldn’t she have said something? Wouldn’t she have made some sort of comment that would have indicated to those types of feelings? 

The complicated feelings that they shared for the other differed to how they interacted with their other family members. It seemed to stem from the fact that they were older and the two leading forces of the grand House Stark. They had endured war together, experiencing things together that the other two could only hear about. Perhaps it was because they only truly formed their bond once they were both traumatised adults but still had the memories of distrust to plague their ability to make cordial compromises. 

“Jon, what did Mance Rayder say to you after Stannis captured him? You were at Castle Black, you had just tried to assassinate him in order to defend the Wall after Mance’s attempt of an invasion. What did Mance tell you?” Bran asked, his voice cut the tension, dragging Jon away from Sansa, bringing their whispered argument to an end. 

Jon paused for a moment, trying to recall the memory that Bran wanted him to detail, before speaking. “He told me that he would never bend the knee to Stannis because the Free folk do not kneel to any king. He told me that if he were to kneel for any Southern ruler, he would lose any and all respect he had gained and worked so tirelessly for. He spent his life bringing together ninety clans, who were at war but they came together to fight, because of him. Because of what he represented and what it meant for them if they stayed beyond the Wall.” Jon paused for a moment, his anger overwhelming him. 

“I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t understand why a man who had worked that hard to protect his people’s survival would just throw it away when he had the opportunity to save them all from winter. He said to me that he would not enlist his people into a foreigner's war. I couldn’t fathom what he meant by that. But now… I understand what he meant. I understand why he wouldn’t bend the knee.” He spoke with a broken voice, despair and the weight of the past was heavy on his shoulders. 

“It’s a bit late for that-” Sansa spat. 

“He was an honourable man! He was only ever honest with me and how did I repay him? By lying and cheating him at every step! Why?” Jon shouted, “because I pledged myself to Night’s Watch and I wasn’t going to portray my vows! Even when I was wearing the Free folk’s colours, eating their food, drinking their Northern wine, and bedding a Northern woman. I knew who I was.” His voice echoed loudly throughout the tomb, all of the winter king’s were listening to him now. 

“I was trialled and almost executed for what I did but I did it to protect my brothers. I did it to protect my home.”

There was a beat of silence, Jon’s words echoed throughout the tall walls, finding its way to every ear. Sansa wiped tears of frustration off her cheeks, taking in a deep breath and sighing. She seemed to have calmed down, regaining her restraint and her emotions leaving her. She was now composed, absentmindedly tugging at the metal chain that was attached to her leather belt. She looked to Arya for support, knowing that she would find an ally from her sister. 

“So, we need allies,” Sansa finally replied to Jon.

“Yes,” he confirmed, relief etched over his face and a smile on his lips. 

“Then we will need to have allies from as many kingdoms as possible.” The three of them turned to Sansa in confusion, all their eyes upon the Lady of Winterfell. She went to continue to disclose her thoughts but Bran was quick to vocalise his confusion. 

“What are you trying to say?” Bran asked his sister, his surprise was apparent in his eyes. 

“Well, Jon will be securing the Crownlands as well as Dragonstone. Arya could secure the Westerlands and you could secure the Neck. Whereas, I, could secure the Vale or even, the Iron Islands.”

“And who exactly would you be marrying?” Jon asked, his body riddled with discomfort and panic.

“I have received an offer from cousin Robin to bring house Stark and house Arryn together again. But it could be in our interests to obtain a kinship with the Greyjoys, as they are currently a very divided house and have rebelled against our family in the past-”

“You don’t surely mean to marry Theon, after everything he did!” Arya exclaimed in shock. 

“He saved my life! He is the reason I was able to leave Winterfell when I did. He was kind but made mistakes and I-”

“You can’t be serious,” Jon bickered, his voice dripping with resentment. He stepped closer to Sansa, breathing in her gasp of air, forgetting that they had an audience and tried to take hold of her hand before clenching his fist; keeping his touch to himself. She stared him down, her eyes ablaze with toying indignation, becoming thrilled with how riled up he was. 

“We need political alliances, you said it yourself.” 

Arya stared at her sister with confusion, she could tell that Sansa was portraying a mask of indifference to Jon but Arya knew that she was hiding something. They both were. She observed them in silence, taking in the cold looks they were giving one another and the deep breathing they were sharing. It was clear that there were hurt feelings between the two, of which involved a matter that Arya was not privy to. 

Arya thought of what Ser Davos had said to Jon those few moons ago; that he should look to Winterfell for his political ties, not to a southern household. Arya had tried to think about the actuality of her sister and cousin coming together in marriage, as it was not something she had deemed possible. But thinking over their options, pondering what their future could look like, it gave Jon more influence and legitimacy in the North to marry the Lady of Winterfell, above the possibility of another suitor. Despite this, it would seem that Sansa was still quite frosty to the concept, divulging her worries into ‘what if’, instead of focussing on, what could be. 

Arya felt a cold chill crawl its way up her spine. The prospects of these two marrying the other was not entirely an idea that evoked disgust within Arya. But the realisation that they might share romantic feelings made her feel somewhat uncomfortable. Arya had heard it be named a “skinny love”- when both parties are unaware of the other’s feelings. Although she tried not to ponder over such romantic talk. Perhaps she had misread their body language and the tension they shared, she could be projecting onto them her own need for companionship. 

“All I wanted to know was your opinion-”

“It’s a bad idea!” Sansa huffed, not stepping away from her cousin but instead, taking the time to look him in the eye. 

They seemed to be having a conversation with just their deep eye contact. The lack of trust, as well as the underlining, unsaid intentions between them, was burning them to the point of ash. The introduction of an outsider to their fragile duo seemed to be putting them through a test of loyalty and judgement. Sansa detested the idea of Jon marrying Daenerys, even if it were for political reasons. Whereas, Jon seemed to be riddled with jealousy over the thought of Sansa promising herself to anyone. 

Jon’s eyes went down to Sansa’s lips and Arya finally understood what this tension meant. They could not see themselves with or without one another; stuck in a place of wanting but never being able to take. Arya envied their passions but ultimately, felt pity for their poorly misjudged feelings. Arya believed that when Sansa declared that Jon’s proposition of marriage to the dragon queen was a bad idea, she was not only crying out for Jon not to do it but she was also telling herself to stop succumbing to her own profound feelings. 

“I think this conversation is somewhat premature,” Bran chuckled. 

“You’re right. What should be discussing instead?” Arya responded, sharing her brother’s smile. Her light tone broke through the stressful atmosphere which was sinking its way through the group. The intensity of Jon and Sansa’s conversation had laminated a stiff awkwardness but was cut when they heard her tone. They snapped away from each other, jolted back into their senses and into reality. 

“Our first priority is the battle for the living. We can spend all day arguing over who has done right and wrong but it will not stop the truth- the Army of the Dead has breached the Wall and are now marching toward us,” Bran declared. 

“What?!” Jon’s voice bellowed, shock and devastation bursting out of him. 

“The Night King resurrected Viserion and used the dragon to burn down the Wall. We do not have much time to prepare. We cannot waste time bickering over such things as marriage, for we do not know what the outcome will be of this war. We do not know which house will survive and if we will need to make allegiances. What we do know is that if we waste time, we will die.” Bran demanded, becoming frustrated for the first time. 

Since returning to her home and to her brother, Arya had not been witness to this side of Bran. When he was younger she did notice a few frequent outbursts of emotion and frustration, which was to be expected from a young child. This seemed to have left his person, now that he was a man grown, she noted his more calm nature. Calm. Calm was a quite polite word for it, Arya thought. Not that she was one to place judgement onto him, not after what she had become, she thought shamefully to herself in the depths of a crisis of identity and not knowing oneself. 

At least Bran knows who he is.

“I should have listened to you,” Jon whispered. It seemed as if he was ignoring Bran only speaking to Sansa, ruminating over this information, ashen fallen. “You were right… it was a trap, she held me as a prisoner on that island. Even when she had seen for herself what we face, she still wanted our kingdom for herself. I know what I did was wrong and Bran is right. I have made mistakes and all of you know that you sometimes have to make tough decisions in order to make it home.” 

“I do not care for your sacrifices, but-”

“Everything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit.” Bran recited words to Jon and Sansa that seemed to have significance. Arya did not know this phrase well, she felt somewhat left out to not know why this was of importance.

“Bran’s right. Here we are arguing over marriages and allies, things that might happen and our mistakes in the past, we’re wasting time-” Arya offered her words of agreement.

“Yes, well, I-” Jon interrupted.

“Do you really believe your people care about this?” Arya decided to change the topic of conversation, or in their case, debate, to a subject matter that Arya was more versed in. She fiddled with the handle of Needle on her belt, as she often did, whilst she allowed them all to process her point, giving them time to answer.

“Jon, you are their chosen leader,” Arya continued. “They chose you because they believed in you,” she turned away from Jon to stand before her sister, “Sansa, are the rightful heir to Winterfell and the oldest trueborn Stark, you are the reminder of what happened to our family.” She knew that were words held a weight that was heavy upon their collective shoulders, reminding them of their importance amongst all of the confusion. 

“But what your people? Will your people fight for you or for themselves?” 

These words fluttered through the air and landed at the feet of the eldest pair. Both looked to Arya, before pondering on the question with great interest. Sansa was the first to offer a response, Jon remaining quiet, allowing her to take the lead. “They will fight for our house. They know that Jon and I took back Winterfell from the Boltons-” 

“Don’t be so prideful. Jon, you are being wilfully ignorant and naive. Whereas, Sansa, you are being far too quick to anger and at times, patronising.” She knew that these words would hurt them but Arya knew that they needed to be aware of their faults, of their piteous immaturities that were going to be harmful in the long run. 

“There is a new threat that faces the common man. What’s stopping them from leaving the North and finding somewhere as far down south as possible?” Arya pressed further, pushing them to think beyond themselves; to go past the certainty of their own obstacles and personal dilemmas and instead, think of what their people will have to overcome. 

“So you’re saying that they need a leader that they believe in; that they trust, who represents their interests” Sansa concludes and Arya nods as a reply.

“The common people do not care for allegiances and who will win the glory. They care for their homes, for their livestock, their families, and what the taxes will be. They barely know who any of us are- not really- not in the same way that the lords do. Most of them just want to live, to have a short winter, and to feel the warmth of summer, once more.”

This seemed to bring clarity to them all and all sense of misunderstanding was now left behind. They knew how it was not appropriate to be arguing, if they wanted to truly stand by one another and fight for their home, they would need to brace the storm as a unit; not separate individuals. They were all scared, they feared for their lives and loosing each other. They were on the cusps of war that is unprecedented, it had to ability to wipe this continent of any living soul, causing the land to become a barren pit of destruction. They knew that this was not what they wanted, they wanted to fight for the living and to protect the living. Arya knew that House Stark was this awful island’s best chance of surviving against the coming storm. 

“Arya is quite right. Jon, we all understand what you face and appreciate what you have done in order to secure a better outcome,” the Stark sisters shared a glance of disapproval of these words, “and Sansa, you are right to focus on not just the threat that is north but also to be thinking of what might attack from the South, to try and predict all outcomes.” Bran smiled softly at his older sister, trying to calm her nerves and bring harmony to the group.

“I think it would be best if you try to work together, instead of arguing of strategies and ideologies. How about you spend time together with your people? Speaking with your vassal houses and their soldiers. Show them that House Stark is strong and there is a united leadership. Let your people know that you understand what risks they are making, that you feel their fear, that you are there with them. Instead of, locked up inside the safe walls of Winterfell playing a game of thrones.” 

“You’re right.” Sansa and Jon sighed in agreement. 

“Yes, we are. You want to win this war and you want to bring back to North’s independence and monarchy. You’re the best people to do it.” Arya replied, turning her attention to her sister.

“You need to show them all that you’re better than the other self-proclaimed Queens out there. Are you going to show the world that you chose to fight this war because you wanted to save your family name, or, was it because you fought for the living? That you fight for the people of Westeros. If not, then you’re worth just as much as a king or queen that sits on their thrones and yaps orders. Do you really think that Cersei or Daenerys even know their people’s fears?”

“Daenerys freed her people from slavery,” Jon barked, a rather knee-jerk reaction, similar to a parrot squawking its learnt phrases. He seemed to be uncomfortable as if he was pointing out a fact that he did not truly believe but rather, it was something within him that needed to say it. Arya believed it came from a place of denial. 

“Oh, did she?” Arya bites back, sarcasm dripping from her tongue and an empty stare in her eyes.

Arya could not believe that her cousin- no, her brother- would defend the actions of that woman. Arya did not know every detail of Daenerys’ time within Essos and her rise to power. It must be a fantastical story, filled with many victories and hardships. But from what she had heard, she did not trust the “Breaker of Chains”. Arya did not find assurance in Daenerys’ actions. The act freeing her advisers, hundreds of men, armies, even cities from slavery was birthed through coverage and kind-heartedness. But her major inconsideration was to not stay in those cities to ensure that new laws were put in place to secure the freedom and livelihoods of her people. To work with her people in order to come up with a system that worked for the newly-freed slaves and represented their requirements. Instead, this queen freed her people and yet, did not care to govern the new world she had forcibly brought them into. She seemed to have good intentions but a true lack of thought into what happens next. 

Arya only had limited knowledge of leadership and monarchs. She deemed a queen that liberates a person of their past, (a person who has only known the reality of being property) and yet, does not offer them a new life that is prosperous, a not very good queen. From what Arya had heard, Daenerys had only given them one option for survival before moving on to the next eventuality. She does not give the impression of a thoughtful individual, even for the care of her people.

Join me in my new world. Refuse, and die.

These were not the words of a just and fair leader. These were the words of ruler that dictates what happens to their people, who will punish those who object with either death or deadly harm. She forces people to fall into line. Arya simplified with the cause that Daenerys fought for but did not understand her methods. These were the words of a mad queen. It is said that madness ran through the blood of the Targaryens, was it due to their unearthly connection with dragons or perhaps, was it due to hundreds of years of incestuous courtships? Arya feared for Jon and what danger he brought himself into by affiliating himself so closely to this woman. His aunt. 

Arya could not support a person like that. She was not raised to find this to be acceptable, none of her family was. So she finds it to be very discouraging that Jon is willing to be in an alliance with a woman like that. To bring House Stark under the rule of a woman who would rather burn the world into submission with fire and blood, rather than have a diplomatic conversation. Surely this was not to be House Stark’s future. 

“Margaery Tyrell was loved by all,” Sansa whispered to herself. 

“Margaery Tyrell?” Jon asked out of confusion.

“Yes. I became close with her whilst in King's Landing. I admired her, I wanted to be her. She was loved by everyone, by the common people most of all, they adored her and with her reign, she brought short-lived prosperity for the Capital. Margaery made everyone believe that she cared for them because she knew that you need to be loved by your people in order to gain what you want. She was the best chance of a fair queen this country had... until Cersei murdered her.” 

Arya had not heard of Margaery Tyrell outside of her lessons with Maester Luwin of the histories of the great houses of Westeros. She knew the woman by her title and that was it, she could not place the name to a face or reputation. But Sansa spoke about her with great pain, her whole body seemed to ache out of grief. She seemed to mourn this woman as if they were once closer than she had stated. 

“Her family made the mistake of underestimating Cersei Lannister.” Arya tried to provide a sense of comfort by showing agreement with Sansa, offering her the feeling of togetherness. 

Sansa smiled briefly at her little sister before taking her judgmental eyes and placing them onto Jon. She seemed to be speaking to him once again without words. He huffed at her and walked away, just outside of the light of the torches. He stood in the protection of the darkness, away from any judgement or prosecution. Far from his secrets, lies and conflicting feelings. Away from Sansa and her continuous chastisement of his character and choices. 

“You will not do the same.” Bran’s voice echoed, bringing the other three back to face him. They all wondered what Bran meant by this, especially Sansa, she went to ask him for more information but stopped herself, knowing that he would not give her any details of her future. 

Arya was analysing each member of her family and noticed that Jon did not look to Bran, instead, he focused his attention onto Sansa and examined her with the thoughts of the past and with the fear of the present. He seemed to awfully worried and dwindling in contemplation. Jon watched Sansa, seeming to become lost in her presence. He began to smile but stopped suddenly and returned Arya’s stare. Arya wanted him to know that she could see it, she could see his warmth toward her sister, his need for her approval and validation. Arya gave him a firm nod which he didn’t respond well to, averting his eyes, becoming embarrassed. He glanced at Sansa once again, his cheeks flushed. 

“It is best that we get back.” Bran declared, trying to promote a notion of action into the group. 

“Yes, we wouldn’t want to be late,” Sansa replied, marching back to the gate without hesitation. 

Jon sighed loudly and went to Bran, grasping the handle’s of the wheelchair and pushing onto the contraption without much restraint. He locked the iron gate with a bang, causing the walls to once again shake with vibrations and life. Arya walked ahead, just behind her sister’s long strides but she was just in earshot in order to listen to the two men behind her quietly talking. 

“I don't know what-” 

“You know that the North will not accept a Southern ruler, Jon. You know what to do,” Bran replied.


End file.
